


Garden of Shadows: The Missing Chapters

by GrayRainbows



Category: Flowers in the Attic - V. C. Andrews
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 107,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrayRainbows/pseuds/GrayRainbows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Complex relationships explored. Alicia reveals a closely guarded secret. What motivations lie behind the scheming of John Amos? Corinne and Olivia have words. What happens when Cathy meets Malcolm? Contains slight crossover, with other series characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter and page numbers herein correspond to those in Garden of Shadows. My chapters are meant to fit into the context of the book, and follow book canon as much as possible.
> 
> The poem quoted in this chapter is by Sarah Teasdale, and is in the public domain.

Author's note: The chapter and page numbers herein correspond to those in Garden of Shadows. My chapters are meant to fit into the context of the book, and follow book canon as much as possible.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Garden of Shadows (The Missing Chapters)

"Only her shadow once upon a stone-  
I saw,--and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone." - Ode to Silence

Chapter 6 insert-A

(page 92)

GOING HOME

"People give pain, are callous and insensitive, empty and cruel...but place heals the hurt, soothes the outrage, fills the terrible vacuum that these human beings make." - Eudora Welty

I was relieved to arrive at the Union Railroad station after the long journey. The motion of the train had made me feel sick--doubtless a physical manifestation of grief. If it had not been so late and the house at such a distance, I'd have walked there, even carrying my suitcase, so glad was I to have my feet on steady ground again. But it was quite late, and I was fortunate to find a taxicab. The driver kept trying to draw me into conversation, but conversation was an effort I simply could not make. Finally, he gave up, and spent the remaining minutes of the drive whistling the same few bars of "Dardanella" over and over, insuring that that tune would be going round in my head all night.

The car rolled in the twilight through the elm-shaded streets I'd known all of my twenty-eight years. Dull-eyed, I looked out at State Street and the bank building my father had once worked in, before he'd acquired his own business. I had been taken there as a small girl, awed by the ornately carved wood, the expanse of the rooms, and the power of the elegantly dressed men who smoked cigars, consumed strong coffee, and made important business decisions, daily. I used to believe they changed the world in that building, and the kindness of their indulgence of a visiting, curious child drew my respect and eventual interest in joining that elite team one day, before I understood that this wasn't possible. My mother insisted on putting a stop to my visits, gently reminding my father that I was a young lady, and should, therefore, take up more suitable pastimes. I was still preoccupied with these memories when the car stopped in front of the house.

A cool evening breeze sighed through the birches and maple trees as I unlocked the front gate and walked toward the stately Victorian house that, had I come back for any other reason, I should have been overjoyed to see. My homecoming was bittersweet. At the top of the porch steps, I leaned against the railing and summoned strength to enter the home where my father had spent his last four years of life without me. I hadn't arrived in time to share his funeral with those who could have mourned with me.

Philip had closed up the house as instructed, and there was no one to let me in. The letter box was overflowing with mail addressed to my father. The sight of his name on envelopes never to be opened by him threatened to destroy my composure as I fumbled in my handbag for the key.

The tall, uncurtained windows on either side of the front door faced blankly out at the darkening night. So often--impelled by a child's superstition that I must catch that last glimpse in order to avert some disaster--I'd looked out of those windows, craning to see Father's retreating figure through the rhododendrons that partially obscured the view of the front walk.

The fog signal from the lighthouse called in the distance as I finally swung the heavy front door inward. The immediate mustiness of the closed-up house assailed me, but it was also the safe, known smell of home, of dried lavender and mahogany. The new silence within was unnatural. I reached for the lamp on the spinet desk to the right of the door. One gentle pull on the chain, and a dim light spilled into the hallway onto the faded Aubusson rug, bringing with it a sense of security.

I made my way to the kitchen, comforted by the sight of familiar objects. There would be time later to dither over remembrances, but for now I had to take care of my more basic needs; I had eaten nothing on the train. My father, I discovered, must have regularly taken his meals away from home, for the kitchen cupboards were nearly bare, and the breadbox held only one stale slice. I drank a tumbler of cold water, and promised myself a large breakfast in the morning.

Nothing had changed in my absence, as if waiting for my return. That saddened me. How lonely Father must have been.

My father had visited us one Christmas, and after the birth of each of the boys, staying on for weeks each time. But heated arguments between Malcolm and myself had preceded and followed each visit, since Malcolm disliked guests to remain for more than a few days. He did not understand--or simply didn't care--that my father was lonely.

Losing Father had come as a shock. It hurt deeply to realize that, most likely, he had been ill when he traveled to Virginia last July, and I hadn't known.  
It was like him to keep that to himself; he hadn't wanted to worry me. His attention had been focused on enjoying the visit with us, and with his grandsons.  
Most likely, he had been having spells for some time before his final stroke.

Father had always treated me as though I was the most important person in the world, and that was a kind of love I would never again know. I should have made more of an effort to visit him, even if it meant defying Malcolm's wishes.

If my father could somehow see me now, I hoped he would understand how I felt, why I had not come home sooner, and most of all, I hoped he hadn't been disappointed in me. The weight of grief settled over me for our lost opportunities: the confidences not shared, the holidays missed.

For the sake of my boys, I had tried to contain my sorrow at Foxworth Hall, but now there was no need; there was no one to protect. Nor had I wanted to cry on the train, but many hours with nothing else to think about made that an impossibility. I thought I'd shed tears enough on the train, but I sat in the cold kitchen, weeping for the trusting way Father had let me make my own choice about my marriage, not insisting in the last moment that perhaps we were both mistaken. Would I have listened if he had expressed any misgivings? I cried, too, for the loss of my mother, whose advice I had surely needed, and whose presence might have kept me from such a blunder. I cried for the emptiness of my father's last years, and for the increasing emptiness of my own life. Father had wanted me to be happy, and once again, I was disappointing him.

A quarter of an hour later, the parlor clock proclaiming the lateness of the hour, I proceeded upstairs to prepare for bed. I switched on a wall sconce halfway up the stairway, trying to chase away the strangeness of the empty house with light, but the T-shaped second-floor hallway was shadowy. In my room, I undressed, gladly discarding the black wool dress--which I knew I could never again wear--for a nightdress. I'd just turned down the bed, when the telephone jangled, alarmingly shrill. Down the stairs I bolted, and nearly lost my footing, forgetting that the treads were high and the risers narrower than the staircases at Foxworth. But I reached the front hall in time, unhooked the receiver and pulled the phone forward, hunching over to speak into it.

It was Malcolm, calling to see that I'd arrived. I was relieved to hear another human voice, even Malcolm's voice, to break the vacant spell of the house.

After inquiring in an offhand manner about the train trip, he asked if I'd decided at what price I'd want to sell this place. Momentarily stunned, I did not reply. The line crackled, carrying Malcolm's impatience across the miles to me. I could imagine his expression as easily as if he were standing before me.

"You had time on the train to think it through."

"That wasn't at all what was on my mind."

"Well, what are your plans?"

"Tonight, I have no plans." said I, tracing the cool brass of the candlestick telephone with my fingertips. "The property is part of my inheritance, and will someday be the boys' inheritance as well. I will meet with Mr. Teller tomorrow. I am here to settle my father's affairs, and then I'll look over the contents of the house and decide what to put into storage, and what to send home."

"Look here," his voice was sharp, and he immediately affected a calmer tone, changing his tactics suddenly, in the same abrupt way in which he moved and spoke. "you have two young children who need tending. It won't do for you to be away, indulging in needless, debilitating emotions. I insist that you arrange to return in two days. That should be sufficient time to see his attorney."

"Needless emotions? I've just lost my father!"

"Olivia," said Malcolm, his voice softening, only pretending compassion, I was sure, "that is precisely why it is too soon for you to be taking on the responsibilities of seeing to your father's estate. Until you have sorted yourself out, I can take care of this for you."

"I am perfectly capable, Malcolm. The only thing I'd like you to do for me is take care of the boys properly until I'm home."

"Well, what do you think I've been doing?" he asked defensively. "Though you should know that I think their behavior is deplorable! One minute Mal acts like a human being, and the next he's regressing into babyhood. And that useless Mary Stuart went home early today."

"It is not her job to see to the boys. I might have guessed you'd try to shirk your parental responsibilities."

"I am not accustomed to this, Olivia. You might be more understanding. Mal refused to let me clean his teeth, and Joel cries for no reason that I can see. They've both been ill-tempered since you left."

"You haven't been too harsh with them, have you, Malcolm?"

"You needn't sound so worried."

"If I sound worried it's because I am well acquainted with your propensity for causing havoc, even when that isn't your intention."

"Which is nothing compared to yours for talking nonsense--for stating what matters least in any situation." he retorted.

"Malcolm-"

"No, I haven't been harsh; I've merely given them some much-needed discipline. If you did that more often, maybe they would have some respect for me."

"They have plenty of respect for your authority, Malcolm. Joel is terrified of you."

"I would hardly say he's terrified."

I sighed.

"You might give Joel some of that Humphrey's Three. It's in the far left of the medicine cabinet. He's getting teeth in, and that should settle him."

"Olivia-"

"Don't tell me you can't manage to look after your own children, Malcolm. It is undoubtedly easier than the way you typically spend your days." I said, not sure that it was really true, but I knew it would silence his complaints. "It's late. Good night."

Before he could reply, I'd replaced the earpiece on its hook, with a satisfying metallic plink.

In the morning, I woke to an empty house, and knew--as sometimes I was reminded at Foxworth--that for me, mornings were the loneliest time of day. Once thoroughly awake, I could happily spend an entire day in solitude, but I found it quite untenable to have to make my own coffee, and, worse, not to have a single cheerful "good morning" wished me. To be alone first thing made me feel as though I must have dreamed my life--dreamed Malcolm and the children, dreamed my own existence.

Still, I determinedly turned my attention to the most pressing of the matters at hand. I regarded my mirrored reflection, pulled a dress from the closet, and held it up critically. The dress was an extremely light gray with a light hue of sage green and tiny pink roses. It made me think of early spring, like a breath of fresh air. I rather liked to look at it, but liked it less once I had put it on. So I selected a maroon dress with tapered sleeves and cream-colored lapel collar, to which I affixed a thin diamond bar pin, a favorite of mine because it was discreet and tasteful, and could be worn with almost anything. That brooch was one of the few birthday gifts Malcolm ever gave me; once the children arrived, we rarely exchanged any but Christmas gifts.

I had a productive day, going from office to office, signing documents and finalizing plans. I found the errands invigorating, and welcomed the distraction it provided from the other impending tasks. Being home brought me some peace. The kindness of old acquaintances (who still called me "Miss Winfield," not remembering my married name) was a balm to smooth over my grief.

I returned to the house early enough in the evening to prepare dinner, a subtly flavored rice and chicken dish, a salad, and warm gingerbread with a fruit sauce. Feeling considerably better than I had the previous evening, I decided to indulge in a long bath--a small luxury I seldom had time for at home, where free time was scarce.

I perched on the curved lip of the tub and twisted my hair into a tight bun, so that it would not trail into the water. The taps emitted a metallic squeak as I adjusted them, waiting for the tub to fill nearly to the top. I poured in a fragrant oil I'd bought that day. I stayed in until my fingertips were shriveled, until I could no longer feel the cold of the house, and until my racing thoughts stilled and my mind was emptied and serene. After nearly dozing off in the bath, I buttoned myself into the warmest nightdress I'd brought from Virginia and went downstairs again, planning to call to check on the boys. The operator failed to establish a connection, so I finally gave up for the night.

Beginning the next day, I meant to start sorting through my father's belongings as well as my own, remembering my yesterdays, and possibly making decisions about how my life would proceed. I didn't want to think about it, but I must find a way to improve matters with Malcolm.

If marriage fell short of what I needed, I had been brought up to believe I must submit to whatever was required of me. My father's words to me on my wedding day chastised me, bolstered my resolve, kept me on course.

There was a part of me--the part that craved conventionality and order and a man to depend on--that could not forget his admonishment, but my parents had also taught me to depend upon myself and to trust my own judgment, so I had quite a conflict within. This inner turmoil never completely disappeared.

Sometimes, I thought I had inadvertently put myself into a situation akin to the time of my parents' youth, when a woman often found herself tied for life to a man she had little or no affection for, and in some instances, despised. And yet, remembering my mother's optimism renewed my own now and then. I had lost my innocence, but perhaps hope was more enduring.

I had much to work through in this brief trip, for there would be little chance to think of any but practical matters once I returned home. It wasn't only my father I'd lost, but my youth--at least, that was how I felt.

I'd hoped to see Elaine, an old friend while I was in New London, but when I went to her mother's home, I found that I was too late, and now there was one more passage of bereavement to move through. I had brought a volume of poetry along to read on the train, the last gift from that same childhood friend. She had died of the Spanish influenza in the epidemic of that abjectly perilous year, 1918. In the cover of the book, she'd written:

"With every good wish for Christmas ... I am not too well, even now. Love, Elaine"

The brief message had been her last communication, and the simplicity and weariness of her words were now a painful reproach. She'd sent a gift, and had written her congratulations when Mal was born, then I had never heard from her again.

My own letters to Elaine had grown shorter, increasingly formal in tone, and farther apart. She had been my dearest friend once, and when her silence lasted for months, I assumed she was hurt, or angry with me for my reticence. I simply could not put into words what my life had become, and what a disappointment my marriage was.

I'd never cared for poetry, but found my eyes skimming lines which I could have written, so true to my own emotions were they. One in particular struck a chord, and I read it several times, absorbing the melancholia captured therein.

"Remember me as I was then;

Turn from me now, but always see  
The laughing shadowy girl who stood-  
At midnight by the flowering tree,  
With eyes that love had made as bright,  
As the trembling stars of the summer night.  
Turn from me now, but always hear,  
The muted laughter in the dew,  
Of that one year of youth we had,  
The only youth we ever knew --  
Turn from me now, or you will see,  
What other years have done to me."

I closed the book, thinking of Elaine, and of myself, and how this simple verse applied to both of us. Had she guessed what a sadness my life had become? Had she felt hers was just as hopeless? I had been so shamefully self-absorbed that I did not know the answer, and because of it I had lost a dear friend. I didn't know where comfort would come from, but I knew I must never again pass up friendship if it was offered.

Unable to rest soundly here, alone, away from the absolute silence of the Virginia countryside at night, without the solid assurance of many rooms and vast spaces of the mansion protectively around me, I was brought to the edge of wakefulness around one o'clock, the third night of my stay. I froze, aware of a foreign sound. I looked toward the open doorway into the hall, but all was quiet. Perhaps it had only been the rattle of one of the loose shutters downstairs. Finally, I fell into a light sleep.

Later, I heard the floor creak, and came fully awake, my heart pounding. There was no question of the sounds being a product of my sleep-dazed imagination. In the vaporous gray light, I saw Malcolm's shape filling the doorway.

"You gave me such a fright! What are you doing here?"

I was not at all pleased to see him. The floor was cold beneath my feet when I reluctantly left the bed, reaching for the blue velvet dressing-gown draped over its footboard.

"I've made coffee." he said, and moved briskly away. I followed, descending the stairs slowly, lead-limbed.

"How long have you been here?"

"It's been about an hour." he admitted. His gloves lay on the table, and cups and saucers had been set out. I poured two cups of the steaming coffee, returning the percolator to the stovetop. Malcolm passed me the chilled bottle of milk, and leaned against the ice box, drumming his fingers against its oak surface. Warm milk would have been best, I thought, but then, coffee never kept Malcolm awake.

I was about to ask what he'd been doing for an hour; I didn't like the thought of him snooping about in my father's den, but a more disturbing thought occurred to me, a dread seeping into my mind. I expected to be given dreadful news, punishment for wishing--if only for a day--to set aside my role of wife and mother.

"Is something wrong with Mal or Joel?"

"Nothing whatever, except that they're spoiled mama's boys who can't get through a day without crying for you."

"They're babies. What do you expect?"

"They are my sons, and I expect them to act as such."

"Malcolm," I said, quietly furious, "you should have stayed home. One of us needs to be with them. How do you think they will feel, with both of us gone? How will it look?"

"I hadn't thought." To his credit, he looked troubled.

"No, you don't think. And now Mrs. Stuart will need to be compensated in some extravagant way. You've asked her to do something which isn't reasonable."

"Mrs. Wilson is staying with them."

Malcolm's implicit trust in Bernice Wilson was due to the fact that she had worked for the Foxworths for thirty years.

"Still, you oughtn't to have left them. And you haven't told me why you are here."

"To hurry you along. I cannot continue to work, and play nursemaid as well. You are needed at home, Olivia, not here having a vacation."

"I am sorry that help can't conveniently and immediately be hired. It isn't as if I planned this, you know, Malcolm."

This was hardly an enjoyable time--certainly not a vacation, but I didn't want to start even a minor disagreement.

"If you've come to offer your assistance--if you really mean to help, there are some things you can do. We shall talk about that later. It's so early! I'm still exhausted, and you must be too--why, it's not even dawn! Did you take the train?"

"I drove." he said, and when I looked at him more closely, I could see the circles of fatigue beneath his eyes. I didn't let myself wonder what it meant that Malcolm should feel it necessary to make that long journey, and I felt no sympathy, though in those days, with road conditions being poor, to undertake such a lengthy trip was not as easy as it is now.

"You must be hungry, then. Have you eaten?"

"I don't want anything."

Carrying our coffee cups, Malcolm followed me into the sitting room, and I remembered the first time I had seen him, so handsome, so unattainable, I'd thought. It had been here, in this very room, and not so long ago. How strange that that memory should mean anything, with so much emotional distance separating us, and separating me from my once cherished dreams. He looked exactly the same. The thought conjured up a hint of wistful yearnings, but I was determined that my thoughts should not take me down that disheartening path.

"I lit the furnace first thing when I arrived. You should have had someone do that sooner. It won't do for you to catch cold and have to prolong your stay."

I couldn't imagine Malcolm doing any task as menial as shoveling coal. At home, that was a job usually delegated to Lucas.

"So, you couldn't bear to be away from me any longer?" I quipped. Malcolm scowled. "There really is no humor in you, is there, Malcolm?"

He glanced toward the half open double doors to Father's den, as if still sensing his presence in the rooms. Perhaps some modicum of respect kept Malcolm's retorts less sharp.

"I choose not to waste my time on frivolity." he said. I chose not to reply.

I sipped at the coffee I didn't want, and watched him from across the room. The glow of the light spilling through the red and amber panels of the Tiffany lamp softened the colors of the room in this early morning half-darkness and lent an air of mystery which I still found compelling. The magic I'd felt four years ago was still disconcertingly alive. Perhaps it was part of this house, so far from the reality of the life waiting back in Virginia.

"Why are you staring?"

"I suppose I'm just remembering." I said.

He regarded me, uneasily, but did not ask what I'd meant.

"We should get some sleep if we're going to get anything done today." he said abruptly, and rising from the divan, walked through to the front entryway where he'd left his suitcase.

"I can't let you stay in my father's room, you understand." I said as we reached the top of the stairs. Malcolm shrugged.

All at once, I felt trapped; why should my home be invaded in this way? My room had been my sanctuary. I had gazed wonderingly at my reflection in the vanity mirror, had lain in my solitary bed and dreamt of him, but not once had my daydreams conjured the reality of my present life. I felt a foolish reluctance to share the place which had been my refuge.

Walking into my old bedroom for the first time in four years had been a somber experience, rather like revisiting the dwelling of another deceased friend. Dresses I'd left behind still hung in my closet; books by Anna Katharine Green and Ethel M. Dell were stacked neatly inside my desk, along with fashion magazines I had studied. A half-full glass bottle of coconut shampoo stood on the bathroom shelf where I'd left it, and the pair of jeweled hair combs I'd meant to take with me lay on the edge of the sink; absolutely nothing had been touched, apparently. The ghost of my younger self lived within these rooms, haunting them with my girlish habits and dreams.

It is difficult to imagine ever feeling the way I felt then, or to remember what were my thoughts. But, in fact, very little had changed. I was still painfully aware of the differences between other women my age and myself; I was unable to easily carry on small talk, or giggle over trifling things others often found frightfully amusing. I'd believed being loved could change all of that, but marriage hadn't brought about any great transformation. It only left me feeling as fragile as the thin glass of the curios I collected, in danger of shattering.

Malcolm did not care to help me, or to know what I felt. If only the glass could splinter and draw blood, as mine had been drawn... but that would never happen. I believed then--when I was young--that the shield around his emotions was impenetrable, but I did not know why a man not yet thirty years of age, should be so hardened against those who might have cared for him.

I busied myself--more out of nervousness than necessity--with the unpacking and arranging of clothes while Malcolm excused himself to have a bath. By the time I heard his footsteps approaching, I was in bed, already having switched on the red-fringed lamp in the adjoining room. It lit the way for him past the bookcase, a loveseat with carved, curved back, my slant-top writing desk, and on the opposite wall the wide table displaying the dollhouse, which stood like a shadow of itself, the colors of the stained-glass Magnolia window behind it cloaked by darkness.

Malcolm was asleep within minutes. I lay quietly, willing sleep to come, worrying about Mal and Joel, so far away. I listened to the house creak and settle. The quiet of the night was deep. The ticking of the clock on the dresser to my left and the hiss of the radiator in the corner finally lulled me into oblivion.

Rays of late morning sunlight woke me. Awareness of where I was, and why, penetrated the fog of half-sleep. Malcolm had shifted in his sleep, and I lay motionless, enjoying the uncommon sensation of him next to me--the solid comfort and warmth of his nearness, the pine scent of soap on his skin--before he moved away slightly, so that we did not touch. I did not know if this was a conscious choice. Even in slumber, I thought with a pang, my husband did not wish to be close to me.


	2. Rainy Day Hopes

Chapter 6 insert-B

RAINY DAY HOPES

"Give me of your flowers one leaf,  
Give me of your smiles one smile,  
Backward roll this tide of grief,  
Just a moment, though, the while,  
I should feel and almost know-  
You are trifling with my woe." - Alice Cary, Make Believe

In the few days Malcolm stayed in New London, it was in some ways as if time had been turned back to the weeks of our engagement. He was unusually generous, assiduously attentive to my wishes.

We did accomplish quite a lot, clearing most of the downstairs rooms at the house.

We ate most of our meals out, and went for evening walks. Had there been more time, I'd have liked to go sailing. The weather was mild, and it lifted my spirits to be out in the spring air.

We revisited the places where we'd spent those early days, now that there was more time to spend, without a rushed wedding to plan for.

"Malcolm," I said impulsively one evening, "I'd like to see one of those moving-picture shows. I was reading about a new one, just today." I didn't name its title, afraid Malcolm would pronounce it mawkishly sentimental. "I'd like to see what all the fuss is about."

"All right," he said slowly, skeptical, no doubt, of its being a valuable use of time, but then he added, with unexpected enthusiasm, "I suppose we could motor to New Haven tomorrow. I can show you where I lived while I was at Yale, and the places where I spent the better part of four years."

It was something he'd talked of doing during our brief courtship, and I was delighted that he seemed open to sharing memories from a time in his life of which I knew little. I was very curious about those mystery years which had gone before.

"It's strange to think that we lived so near to each other for years, and that we might have met sooner." I mused.

"Yes, but it's best that it didn't happen that way. It would have been too much of a distraction, I should think."

"A distraction?"

"A distraction in every sense. A distraction from focusing on the purpose at hand-getting an education. I had definite plans for myself."

"Do you think I would have been a hindrance to your plans?"

"I didn't say that. But can you imagine enduring a long engagement?"

How different men's and women's feelings can be. I wouldn't have minded a long engagement period. It might even have opened my eyes to the truth about Malcolm.

Malcolm was undoubtedly eager to return home and to his offices, but he did not bring this up. Indeed, his impatience seemed to have temporarily abated, and for that I was grateful.

Everywhere we went, I was reminded of what had so fascinated me about Malcolm. Never was there a man more sure of himself, of the correctness of his opinions and his position, than my husband. He was a remarkable man, if not an admirable one. I was considerably less charmed than I had been four Aprils before, but daily, familiar places and the clean spring days brought my better memories back to me.

The morning Malcolm and I had gone to pick out rings-a mere four days after we met-it had been sunny. My heart had been as light as my step along the narrow sidewalk where we walked briskly, even then, with purpose. I liked the way Malcolm had taken my hand briefly, firmly, as if he'd done it always, confident that his choice was right. The small gesture was dear to me, starved for affection as I was. To feel his large fingers tighten around my own made me feel that, at last, I belonged, rather like coming home after a lonely journey, only my journey was just beginning.

If I'd had an inkling of doubt, I'd allowed it to be swept away by Malcolm's assurance, and by the yearning I felt when my eyes met those fathomless, cerulean eyes that seemed to absorb and know me. If I had only known as much!

I had pinned my hopes on so little. But I had been blessedly unaware of all of that, on the April day when everyone seemed to be smiling, and the wind that fanned my hair back from my face carried the scent of cinnamon bread from the bakery a block over, where we stopped to buy a pastry before going on to the business of choosing jewelry that would symbolize permanence.

My engagement ring was a simple white-gold affair with five modest round-cut diamonds. A pair of small diamonds flanked an art deco design of concentric squares, in the center of which sparkled the single, larger diamond.

"We want that one." Malcolm had said to the jeweler, and then turned to me. "I think that one will do; it suits you perfectly. Do you approve, Olivia?"

Of course I did. The ring was lovely, though not the most costly or flashy one in the display case. It was Malcolm's choice for me, how could I be anything but pleased? I've since been given many rings, beautiful rings, all far more valuable, but none have meant quite as much as that first one, given me when I was unreservedly happy.

I liked the way Malcolm seemed to know what he was looking for, and how there was no indecision. I was glad I hadn't chosen my own ring. I'd heard that some women selected theirs, and I wondered how there could be any meaning in that. A ring one chose for oneself wasn't a gift.

Now, on the third day after Malcolm's appearance, we spent the morning negotiating the sale of my father's company. The men, in dark business suits and vests, seemed relieved to see my husband in attendance, assuming he would finalize the deal, but Malcolm merely put in a remark now and then, and looked on in silence the rest of the time. At first, the men smiled indulgently my way, but that quickly turned to a curious tension, once they realized I would handle the transaction, myself.

"I have to tell you that I was beginning to think it was a lost cause, and that it was a waste of effort and time, but you did well." said Malcolm, as we walked along the beach that evening. It was high praise coming from one so precise and such a perfectionist.

"What do you think?" he asked. I was sure his mind was still on business, but mine was not. After the shared experience of working and planning together, and after the triumph when we knew the sale would close as I had hoped, I felt comfortable enough to speak freely.

"I was remembering that I used to spend hours on this beach. If there was a free day, I wanted nothing more than to be by the sea, with only the sky for company." Many times, the gulls and the waves were the only sounds. "It is my most vivid memory of childhood. It was as though I was the only one on earth. I reveled in that emptiness. It made me feel... so free."

"And lonely."

"Sometimes, yes. But I was so accustomed to being alone-to playing alone and amusing myself. You know how it is, as an only child. There is no choice but to make the best of it, and to learn to enjoy solitude."

"I never did enjoy it when I was young. I didn't want that for my boys." said Malcolm.

I nodded.

"I didn't mind. I used to run away from everyone. I'd run out over the sand and lie down in the hollow of the dunes so that I could see people, but I couldn't be seen. I liked the feeling of being with them, yet invisible. This beach was my sanctuary, you see, just as my room was at home-the two places where nothing could touch me. Did you have a place like that?"

Evening's shadows began to lengthen. I watched Malcolm's face, which, like the sea, was so calm, but might turn restless in an instant.

"A place?" he asked, as if he did not understand, and then: "I did. Do you know the lake, south of our house?"

"Oh, yes."

"It was my haven, as your beach was for you."

"I'd have thought it would be some hidden-away place in Foxworth Hall."

"No." he said shortly. "I would often go out at night to swim, or just lie on the edge of that lake and watch the sky. It was so infinite, I thought I could lose myself in it. And that is what I wanted-to be lost. To forget."

"To forget what, Malcolm?"

There was a lengthy pause, and knowing how ruthlessly private he was, I didn't expect an answer.

"My father." he said brusquely.

"What about your father?"

"His anger and punishments. I needed to escape him, the people he would invite to stay, the women he would bring home. So I'd go to that lake."

Tentatively, I took Malcolm's hand. He allowed the contact, but he did not look at me.

"I can see you doing that, too." I said softly.

I could easily imagine the vast inky blue reaches of the Virginia sky. It did make one's troubles seem small. It had the power to make one forget immediate concerns, an effect similar to that of this entire week. I shouldn't have forgotten to look beyond Malcolm's words to his motivations. He only troubled himself to be kind when he could gain by doing so.

"Why did you need an escape? From what you've told me, I had the impression that your home was a happy one." he said suddenly, with a hint of suspicion, as if he thought I may be fabricating, or reinventing my past.

"It was happy," I stopped myself from saying "compared to yours."

"How do you know?"

I considered the strange question for a moment, and dismissed it.

"I've always been solitary. And with the rheumatism, my mother was bedridden so much of the time in her last year-" I trailed off, unable to sum up the memories of two decades, in a single sentence.

"Life wasn't untroubled, for you, either."

"No." I said simply. "And later, I came here, when being at home was too much-when Father couldn't hold a conversation which didn't include talking about Mother's last few days. He was like that for a long time, and I just wanted to forget. There were so many better memories of her. She taught me to garden, to grow beauty in flowers, and also, the more practical-vegetables and herbs. She taught me to cook and to organize and run a home efficiently. She prepared me to live either with or without money."

"But she must have known you would never lack, in that way."

"Surely, she must have." I averred. "She taught me to be a proper lady. Father challenged my mind and encouraged me to educate myself beyond school requirements, although it wasn't necessary... for a girl. If Mother had lived, she would not have wished me to attend college."

I glanced at Malcolm. He was still listening.

"I wasn't born until my parents were forty, but I never felt as if I was an afterthought to their life. However, they were first with each other-that's as it should be-I was second. I didn't lack for attention, but I always believed my life would be happier, once I was grown. I thought all of my questions-the ambiguity about my identity, my place in the world-would be solved then. I hoped to find the same stability I had with them, only improved."

"And haven't you?"

I stopped walking, caught off guard. Stability, I had said. Not happiness.

"I suppose." I admitted. "But sometimes I wish... Malcolm, I think we married because we were both lonely." He didn't respond. "And because we needed to create some order."

"There's nothing wrong with that." he said, a bit defensively. "We aren't like your parents, or mine, thank God."

I considered that. There were no comparisons to make. Perhaps that was freeing, in a way.

Sometimes when I looked at Malcolm, I saw a stranger. Sometimes I saw a stranger in myself as well. Who were we together, and who were we separately? I had been measuring us by the standards I saw around me, in others and in books. I measured us by the example my own parents had provided, but perhaps that was a mistake. My expectations would never fit my marriage as it was, or as it would be, no matter what changes came about.

Although I had taken comfort from the memory of my mother's views, they did not always apply to my situation. She was of a mind that married people should never criticize one another in the presence of children or in company, and with this I completely agreed. She would say that one had to be careful of a man's feelings; men were as fragile as children, in some ways. But my mother had never imagined anyone like Malcolm, and as much as I respected her, I was not like my gay, lighthearted mother.

We walked on for some time without speaking, then another man greeted us, and Malcolm stopped to talk.

Although I knew I was being foolishly sentimental, I allowed myself a glimmer of hope that all could be set right, even now. I'd longed for just the smallest nuance of connection-the particular "knowing" inflection in Malcolm's voice that meant the two of us were joined in ways no one could intrude upon. No one could break that connection, imperfect as it was. All this I heard in the altered inflection Malcolm used when speaking to the stranger; it was slightly different from the tone with which he spoke to me.

As he continued talking, I watched Malcolm. My mind drifted. I lost the thread of the desultory conversation, so I contributed little. They had a difference of opinion, and I was fascinated by the way Malcolm eventually swayed the man to his point of view. It was an art Malcolm had perfected; it was why he was so successful in business. He had an energy that one was drawn to, almost unknowingly. This was even true of me, although I knew how calculating he could be.

I wanted very much for the other man to move on, so we could resume our conversation; I wanted Malcolm to want this. I imagined us walking on, and then stopping in the shelter of the falling twilight, in one of the places I'd told him about. He would kiss me then, slowly, sweetly. I knew just how the kiss would feel and taste, and I wanted it more than anything else, at that moment-that, and no more.

The brilliant light of afternoon faded as I walked on ahead, waiting for Malcolm to finish his conversation. The wind turned chilly. The mist I had delighted in walking in earlier had turned to rain, and I'd left my raincloak back at the house, draped over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs.

"It's so gloomy, suddenly." I said, tightening a shawl about my shoulders as we walked back to the house in the rain.

"Only if you choose to see it that way. Rain isn't an ill omen." Malcolm replied, unlatching the front gate. "You'll undoubtedly get better than a fair price on this house; it's been well maintained."

"That's because Father believed that I-unmarried-would live on here, even after he..." I took a deep breath, trying to keep my composure. "He made all sorts of improvements. I remember when we got the electric lights; Margaret-our housekeeper-kept saying how it would have gone very much against Mother's wishes."

"Well," he decided, "we may as well get started packing up what you want to take with you. Where shall we begin?"

"Upstairs. But not until we've had dinner. There are the contents of four rooms to sort out."

"A far cry from Foxworth Hall, eh?"

I looked at him, frowning. What was his point? I was growing so accustomed to his invectives that I did not know if this was mere idle talk, or something else. No Italian marble floor or expensive art was to be found here. Of course this house did not compare with Foxworth Hall, which had-save for the north wing-eight rooms in each of its upstairs wings, alone.

There was no guest bedroom in my father's house. When I was twelve, a connecting archway was added from what had been a spare room, adjoining it to mine. That left the nursery and sewing room-really an enlarged closet off the nursery-and my father's bedroom. Not many rooms in all, perhaps, but I was overwhelmed by the job ahead.

"It's mostly a catch-all storage space now. I never went through it; there wasn't a need to." I said an hour later, opening the squeaky door. The shades were drawn, and the chamber had a claustrophobic feel, which was the true reason I'd resisted going into it.

In a far corner, partially blocked from view by a folded screen and rug that had once graced the sitting room, was what remained of the nursery furniture, with high-relief carvings in the wood-elaborately old-fashioned pieces which I wouldn't have chosen for a nursery. The crib had stood folded against the wall for over twenty years, though I do remember stealing in-I had been strictly forbidden to-and peeking through the bars, then climbing onto a chair to peer down at my sleeping cousin, whose mother was downstairs visiting. I'd wondered what all the fuss was over such an unlovely, sallow-faced baby.

A rocking chair was piled with quilts and other linens in disarray, so unlike the bright, airy modern room I'd created for Mal and Joel. Everything here was dust-laden, the room cluttered with the odds and ends of a family that had lived in the same house for thirty years. It was not unlike the Foxworth attic, only on a much smaller scale, and it left me with the same thought: that there is a pathos, something inexorably sad about the evidence of time that has passed.

I moved a croquet set and a box of dime novels and sheet music, stacked the pieces of a broken maple chair to one side, and made my way to what looked like the best starting point. Opening a bureau drawer, I found it still packed with dozens of now-unfashionable, tiny dresses, and shook one out with a moment's indecision before beginning to discard what my mother had cherished.

"It's hard to believe I ever wore such things." I said holding up a small high-buttoning leather shoe. I tossed it into an empty box and turned back to the bureau.

"All this," Malcolm gestured, taking in the contents of the room disdainfully, "For a girl."

"An only child." I reminded him. "As the only Foxworth son, you must have had as much."

"I suppose. But you were loved." he said, as he turned his back. I simply couldn't have heard him correctly. I looked up, surprised by his indirect admission that love mattered. Tentatively, I touched his sleeve.

"Never mind, Olivia." he said, brushing off my gesture, lifting an armful of books into a second empty box.

I wanted to suggest that he not repeat his father's mistakes with Mal and Joel, perhaps, but the proper words did not present themselves, and so I continued to work, thinking that, as I'd said earlier, it was our aloneness-our wounds that drew us together.

"Through there is the sewing room. Pack up what looks useful; I'll trust your judgment."

He made some sound of assent-Malcolm had countless ways of communicating without using actual words-and went into the adjoining room. I heard him shoving objects about, and the rustle of papers.

The light was poor, so I went across the hall to my own bedroom, carrying the first of the boxes, which I put down on the loveseat. There were many more boxes, unmarked and some heavier than the first, and I wasn't looking forward to this tedious job. I did not know what I would do with old furniture I did not want, including a treadle sewing machine I knew I'd probably never use, or a dozen bisque dolls and other play-things which were of no use to my sons.

When I lifted the lid, the box contained half a dozen old tintypes and postcards, a silk parasol-I would keep that-pieces of a jigsaw, lesson books and sloppily-rendered drawings done by my own six-year-old hand, hair ribbons, painted shells and a loose amethyst my father had given me when I was eight.  
I had carried that stone in my skirt pocket for luck for the longest time. When had I stopped? When had I lost my own kind of innocent magic-the belief in the childish superstition I had invented? It had been transferred to adolescent daydreams. Remembering, missing an innocence I could scarcely recall now, I stared at the dollhouse, awash in the sky blue, spring green, purple and brown from the Magnolia window.

"Ah, there you are. How do you propose to finish this by standing there, woolgathering?" asked Malcolm. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking."

"Of what?"

"The dollhouse."

"You'll want to keep it, I suppose."

"It was a gift. It was specially made in England, and Mother talked about it so much before it was ever sent, building up my expectation. I looked forward to having it so. I dreamt of it for months-a lifetime to a child, you know, and... then, after all of that waiting, it was only meant to be looked at.  
I wasn't to touch it-ever. Not even the case. It was such a disappointment."

He glanced at the dollhouse, uninterested, and back at me.

"I suppose I've thought it a symbol for-for my life. I didn't want to be on the outside anymore."

"Outside of what?"

"Life. Happiness. I don't know, precisely. I wished for that family." I went on, trying to explain in as few, unsentimental words as I could what the dollhouse represented. Later, I wondered how I'd dared to reveal so much, and why I let that evening have such significance.

"Olivia," he said, forcing me to look at him, though his face and voice remained unreadable. "you don't need to wish; it is yours. You already have that home. If not for you, there would be no family."

"It sounds so simple, the way you put it." I said, looking away.

"It seems to me that you have two options. You can choose to be content, or-"

He stopped, perhaps seeing some evidence of the resentment that sliced through me. I had sudden visions of taking a hammer to the glass and smashing through it, smashing what caused me to be discontented, the naive wishes I had once built my expectations upon.

"Shall I?" he asked. "Which way do you feel about it?"

"I-I'm not certain."

He knelt to examine the back and underside of the glass case, sliding it to one side. I hadn't known a key existed; I had never seen one before, and I didn't think to ask where he found the one he produced.

There was a small click; the tiny key was a perfect match, but it didn't seem possible that, after all, the glass case should open so easily.

Malcolm, keeping his eyes on me, reached carelessly into the dollhouse and withdrew something.

"You'll feel better once you are home again." he said. He would soon grow impatient with my untidy grief.

"I just feel so... alone, sometimes."

I hadn't meant to say it. I looked at what he'd placed in my hands, and saw that it was the small wooden cradle.

"Alone?" I could see that he did not understand. "You have the boys, and you have... you aren't alone."

He brought his lips to mine, so gently at first that I could have believed this was one of my daydreams. The kiss deepened.

"Come home." he said quietly. "I'll take care of everything. You won't need to concern yourself with-" he gestured expansively, taking in the dollhouse,  
the room and the rest of the house beyond it.

I envisioned strangers going through this house, removing what I valued. I envisioned my father's one remaining business and my inheritance being adequately managed, but forever out of my hands, and the Winfield name forgotten. I recoiled. Of course, that had been Malcolm's motive all along.

"It can be simple, if you let it be-if you would just agree."

I didn't want to be forced into making major decisions. Then, as if he read my thoughts, he drew me nearer, and kissed me again, carefully, as softly as the spring mist that clung, but seemed to have no substance.

I wanted to think that my suspicions were groundless. I'd almost convinced myself this was the case, had just tentatively laid my hand on Malcolm's sleeve,  
when the telephone began to ring. I started, as if I'd been caught in an indiscretion.

"Let it go." said Malcolm.

"It may be from home. No one else would phone so late." I reminded him. He swore, and went from the room. I turned the little cradle over in my hands, and waited. When he didn't return right away, I started toward the hall, where, from the top of the stairs, I would be able to overhear his side of the conversation.  
But something he'd brought into the room with him caught my eye. It was an old rosewood lap-desk with brass escutcheon and corner pieces in need of polishing.  
I ran my fingertips over its satin-smooth surface, and tried to open it.

"It isn't locked." said Malcolm, startling me. I hadn't heard his approaching footsteps. He took the desk, and wrenched the lid open. It was filled with letters.

"Oh," I breathed, wonderingly. "Why have I never found this before?"

"It was hidden under bolts of fabric. I thought you'd want it." He pulled a slim book from beneath the letters, and held it out to me.

I opened the cover gingerly; it felt fragile in my hands.

"It is your mother's, isn't it?"

The desk was hers. The letters were from others, written to her. The slim book had also belonged to my mother. Her name was neatly written in old-fashioned copperplate script across the first page: Constance Honor Trowbridge Winfield. She'd written the important dates of her life in this book, her wedding date, February 29, 1872-which was also her twentieth birthday.

Father had given away most of her belongings, so I hadn't expected to find anything I hadn't already been given. I wasn't one for visiting graves, and possessions were meaningless objects that did not lessen sorrow. What meant most were the memories I carried-fragments of my life, my parents' lives. Father and I had spent most of our waking hours with her, trying to say all that needed to be said, hoping that we would carry no regrets later, when it was too late to tell her how much she had meant to us. I remembered bringing flowers from the garden she and I had once tended together. I hoped to brighten her room with their scent and with the memories the flowers would evoke of long summer afternoons when she had taught me what mattered to her.

I extracted a single folded sheet tucked between the pages, an incomplete letter with my name on it.

"March 5, 1908

Olivia,

There is so much I wish to say that cannot be contained in a letter, or in a bundle of letters. I have very little time left, and I want that time to be happy; I hope your last memories of me will be good ones. Life brings us enough sadness, without our intentionally inviting it in.

Dr. Harris thinks he is being kind by telling me I will recover, but I know better. Honesty would be kinder. It would be wisest if I were permitted to say my good-byes now. I am ready to go, I must choose to be ready. I want this season of sadness for you and your father to pass. Don't grieve over long.

To be happy, to be truly rich is to have peace. Your name, Olivia, means peace. I hope it will be your mainstay. I hope that someday you may have children who love you as well as I have been loved-children who are blessings to you, and a man who will be kind to you when it matters."

She hadn't said anything about love, I noted, and that encouraged me. Perhaps I had not made such a grave mistake after all. I comforted myself with this small self deception, and tucked the letter back into the diary to read later.

"Who was on the telephone?"

"John." answered Malcolm, annoyed. "He sounded surprised that I should be here. Says he'll come around to see you in a few days. You do see what I'm saying?  
They waste no time."

My aunt Margaret had come for tea the previous afternoon, and spent a good deal of the evening with me. She remained in perpetual mourning, unchanged in appearance since the last time I'd seen her, even wearing the same gray percale dress and cotton gloves. She was corseted into unnatural thinness (a practice I myself had only considered using during the beginning of my first pregnancy.) It was certainly unnecessary for Margaret; she had never gained the extra pounds middle age brings to some women. Her somber expressions of sympathy made me feel even worse. I felt guilty, I admitted to Malcolm, but I'd been relieved when she finally left to catch the ferry back to Long Island.

"It's peculiar, but I always have the impression that she doesn't see me as myself, but as some substitute for,  
or a pale copy of my mother."

"You look like her, from what I can tell." he said, glancing at a picture of my parents from the 'eighties when they were young, Father in a white linen suit and summer boater, Mother in a tight-sleeved dress and small hat tilted forward on her elaborately coifed hair.

"But I'm not anything like Mother, in temperament or speech."

Perhaps I was equally guilty of being drawn to Margaret Jackson only because of the resemblances to my mother. I have very few memories of my aunt that don't involve my mother as well. The sisters-though there was a ten-year difference in their ages-had in common a distinctive, delicate bone structure and auburn hair. My mother's narrow eyes were a clear gray, while Margaret's were a soft hazel that rarely registered joy.

Margaret was the younger sister, but to me, she had always seemed much older. Her life had been fraught with sadness. She had suffered many stillbirths,  
and her one living daughter, Vivian (a year younger than me) died by age four.

During an Easter visit to our maternal grandparents, the child had fallen into an old dry well on an adjacent property. It was two long days before she was found.

I have a memory-perhaps less a true memory than a memory of a child's assumption of what death looks like-of Vivian, of her face, as pale as our grandmother's old wax doll with which we had often been given to play. I had nightmares about my cousin for months afterward. In sleep, I would hear her thready voice.

Doubtless, this was prompted by some invidious child's story read to me by my father, and I would wake, screaming until my mother carried me down to the warm kitchen and a cup of chamomile tea half filled with milk. When I was calm, she would scold, saying that reading to a little girl too often only encouraged an overactive imagination, and if I would say my prayers more sincerely, I would not be so frightened. Then she would bundle me off to bed again, pinch out the candle, leaving me in darkness.

All of this was before John Amos came into the picture. Understandably, Margaret feared losing him too, but she remained emotionally distant to her only living son. John Amos' parents called each other "Mother" and "Father," rather than by their Christian names, but then, they had been parents for most of their married years, whereas my own parents had enjoyed a full life together before I was born.

"Margaret seems to live in the past more than in the present day." I sighed. "I worry for her."

"She has a son, Olivia. Let him worry about her. You have your own life with which to concern yourself. I wouldn't think it a wise idea to get too involved with those people."

"Those people, as you call them, happen to be my only remaining relatives!"

"You have a family." he replied caustically. "You don't need them."

How could he know what I needed when he never asked? As usual, Malcolm only cared for what was convenient for himself.

"And those people are all descending like vultures now." he continued, as if there were dozens of aunts and cousins. "They don't care about you, Olivia,  
they want a share of your inheritance."

"Oh, no, Malcolm." I objected immediately, but perhaps my uncertainty showed. Margaret had made such a point of telling me how proud my mother would be if she could see how well I'd done for myself, meaning my marriage.

"That man-your cousin-has no ambition; even his mother admits it. "He may not know where he's going, but at least he's on his way."" he quoted Margaret.  
"Whatever THAT means."

"Malcolm, please-"

"They've been waiting for this. How did they even know of your father's...passing?"

"I can't think of it now." I was distressed and close to tears. "I just want to go home." I said miserably.

"We can go tomorrow, if you wish." he said quickly.

"No, I meant... this is home. I was happy here. I wish I could stay."

"What? You can't do that, Olivia."

In June of 1908, a few months after Mother died, I was invited to spend the summer in New Hampshire with Elaine at her grandparents home. Father thought it would do me good to get away. The first night, as I opened my suitcase, I found an envelope my father had tucked in without my knowing. It contained a short note: "If for any reason you want to come home, send word, and I'll be there. -Daddy."

I had not called him "Daddy" for some time, and I was then sixteen-old enough not to feel a child's homesickness, but the little note made me cry. If only he was here now. Would he have come to take me and the boys home if I'd wanted him to during the last three years? Probably not, (nor would Malcolm have allowed his sons to be taken from him)-but this house, and the memory of the man whom had made it a haven comforted me now, as much as the idea that Father would have taken us in, had I asked.

"I only meant-" I cast about, trying to think how to explain. "I always thought I could go home again, but I can't. It isn't easy to come to terms with that. A part of my life is over, and there's no way back to it."

"I wouldn't want to be a child again. I don't have attacks of nostalgia about childhood." said Malcolm, offering no sympathy. "Olivia, put this behind you.  
Sell this house. Forget it."

"I've lost my father!"

Malcolm was unmoved, his expression remained fixed.

"You can't understand that because you still have yours, even if he is away, even if the two of you don't see eye to eye. You still have the luxury of knowing you'll see him again. You can talk to him."

"My father!" he said harshly. "I wouldn't miss him if I never heard from him again. I've done well without his support. I'm all right."

"No, you are not all right." I said, pulling away. "Because your relationship with Garland isn't a good one, you assume that I should as easily dismiss my feelings about my father, too. I'm sorry you can't understand why that is impossible for me to do. Sometimes, I believe you are the most insensitive,  
unkind person I know."

I brushed at my eyes which had begun to fill with tears.

"Give me time to grieve as I need to, alone, so I won't offend you. Go home, Malcolm."

"You will be on that train with me!"

"Don't shout at me, Malcolm. Of course I'll go-in a day or two. The boys-"

"Oh, the boys! Yes, I know how you love the boys." he said this as if loving was a crime. "If they weren't here, you-"

"But they ARE here; you wanted them. They are a fact of our lives. I don't see a point in speculating about life any other way."

Rapidly, I descended the stairs, wanting to put distance between us. Let him wonder. I'd certainly done my share of that. Let him brood; it was probably the first time he'd confronted doubt. I didn't care to reassure him.


	3. Prospects of Increase

Chapter 6 insert-C

PROSPECTS OF INCREASE

It was with more than a few qualms that I returned to Foxworth Hall. I knew I'd find Malcolm as aloof as ever, but instead of wishing for what would never be,  
I would, as my mother had often advised, blossom where my flower grew-or at the very least, abide by my own choice and bear disappointments with grace.  
After my talk with John Amos, I felt a renewed readiness to do what was right for my family, what was right in the eyes of God. This was most acceptable according to my own values.

The train did not stop at the depot near Foxworth Hall on weekends, so I arrived in Charlottesville in the late afternoon. I expected to see no one but Lucas when I disembarked, but Malcolm himself had driven to the station to collect me, with Mal in tow. Malcolm was eager to hand him over to me at the earliest opportunity.

I received my husband's perfunctory kiss by way of a greeting, then I knelt as Mal ran, excitedly, to hurl himself into my arms.

"Mommy!"

"Darling, I missed you so much." I said, delighted. It had been a long few days, separated from Mal, and it must have seemed even longer to him.

I was grateful for Mal's presence-even his steady stream of questions; they would diffuse the tension between Malcolm and myself. We had not spoken more than a necessary few words since that unpleasant scene, before his departure from New London. I had seldom been so outspoken as I had been that night. Why had I so unwisely wished to push us to some sort of breaking point?

"Where did you go?"

"I told you that already, Mal. I have answered that question at least a dozen times." Malcolm said, more to himself than to Mal. He stood to one side, watching,  
a tight, petulant look clouding his face.

I wondered, not for the first time, why Malcolm could not enjoy his children. The only time he seemed marginally at ease with them was when he was the only adult present. Perhaps he felt self-conscious, and disliked being observed interacting with them.

"I went to Connecticut. Can you say that?"

Mal concentrated for a moment, thinking, then shook his head.

"Already you've learned an important lesson, Mal. Never try something unless you're sure of success."

"Is this the kind of thing you've been teaching the boys, in my absence?"

"It's not as though he understands." he claimed in defense. "And I don't feel the need to wait for your absence."

"Are we going to work?"

"No, Mal. We're going home now. Daddy goes to work." I said.

"He's trying to say," Malcolm explained impatiently, "that we went by the office before your train arrived."

"I brought you a surprise present. One for you and one for your brother." I told Mal, lifting him up, hugging him close.

"Where?" asked Mal, looking around. His sky-blue eyes lit up with wonder.

"You can have it when we get home. Can you guess what it is?"

"Candy!" he chirped.

"Not candy." I said.

"Candy! Candy!" he insisted.

"You may have a sweet after dinner. Now see if you can guess what the surprise is."

"Tiger?"

"I'm afraid not."

Mal was fascinated by tigers, that spring. He had half a dozen tiger toys, his favorite small cup and dish pictured tigers, as did the quilt that covered his bed.

"I'm sure you can continue this childish game at home." put in Malcolm. "We should get started. Olivia, I meant to tell you that I received a call from-"

"Mommy, look!" squealed Mal, whose attention was so easily abstracted by the noisy commotion of the train station.

"How many times have I told you not to interrupt, when I am speaking?"

Mal watched his father, and grew silent.

"I got a call from someone from the Henderson and Irving factory. They're planning-"

Malcolm's explanation was interrupted by more of Mal's questions. He was now old enough to begin to need his father's attention, but in his limited understanding,  
and in his world which consisted of attentive adults, Mal was still young enough to be confused by Malcolm's frequent indifference.

"I don't have time to answer another of these pointless questions."

"He won't be this age for long, Malcolm."

"As if that makes any difference." he muttered.

"How long does it take to answer one or two? Besides, I should think you'd be happy he's asking you something about one of our businesses."

The gibe was met only with a grunt of annoyance, and he ignored Mal, who kept up an unbroken stream of chatter which Malcolm refused to see as comical and endearing.

"He's not a baby; make him walk." directed Malcolm, as we started toward the car.

"Where is Joel?"

"I saw no need to bring them both. He's at home with Mrs. Stuart, and she can only stay for," he paused to consult his pocket watch. "another hour. We should be going. I'll get your luggage."

When we reached Foxworth Hall, the house was abustle with activity. Lucas was on hand to carry my luggage into the house and up the stairs, where Mrs. Steiner would see to the unpacking of my suitcase, as well as the trunks I'd brought back from New London. Mrs. Wilson came forward to say that she'd prepared a pot of tea; (I was grateful for the way she had of anticipating what was needed, and when.)

Mrs. Stuart explained that Joel was asleep. At that hour, it only meant that he would be awake during the night. I was not pleased by this carelessness. I wanted nothing so much as a cool bath and a short nap, neither of which I was to have.

Mal would not play quietly, or sit still. He would not be content until I examined and admired each of the new toys he had acquired during my absence (a tin cash register, a plush poodle and two new cloth picture books.) He pulled on my skirt and followed me about, dancing around in a continuous frenzy of energy. He told me in disconnected fragments about the days I'd been away, and ordering me-in a peremptory way which I'd have scolded him for if he were older-never to leave again.

Breathing in the fragrant steam, I drank my tea, and temporarily curtailed Mal's activity by asking him to draw various pictures.

"Blue," he said, holding up one of the colored pencils, "is for sky."

"Yes."

"Green," the education continued. "is for grass. And frogs. And-"

"Spinach? String beans?" I suggested. He gave me a scornful look.

"Frogs!"

After dinner, (and probably in order to avoid further time with the children) Malcolm claimed he had work to do. Before objections could be voiced, he went back into town, leaving me to a solitary evening, on my first day home. I did not mind this. I bathed the boys and put them to bed, and only then did I have the first spare moment of that long day.

I walked through the library into the office beyond. From here, I could hear Mal, if he got out of bed-the nursery, whose floor creaked, was directly above the office. There were many rooms in Foxworth Hall, but the house was so old that its insulation wasn't all one might wish, but when the children were young, this did have its advantages.

There was a pile of unsorted mail on the corner of the desk beneath the geode paperweight. I riffled through the envelopes, glancing at the return addresses, separating what was likely to require immediate attention... tomorrow, I decided, but I went out to the foyer, where mail was sometimes left on the cherry table next to the front doors, and where Malcolm's briefcase might be, when he neglected to carry it into his office. Malcolm had left there an envelope of photographs taken weeks before, during our trip to tour the fabric mills, in Georgia. Already, that seemed such a distant memory!

I stepped out onto the terrace where the perfume from the flowering lilac bushes was a bit cloying. I gazed at the velvety night sky. I stood there for a long time, thought of my father and, in the silence, felt peace mingled with my sadness.

Returning once more to the library, I straightened the desk, the room, and sat down to read a chapter of "East Lynne."

This library was full of treasure, if one enjoyed very old books, as sometimes I did. When I first came to live at Foxworth Hall, months had passed before I found here any fiction published after 1895. Most of these books had belonged to Malcolm's grandmother, but on the whole, the Foxworths, I guessed, had not been great readers.

Malcolm's ambition, I'd said to him half jokingly once or twice, was to become the next Jesse Livermore. But this slavishness to his work on a weekend was excessive, I thought, when, at nine-thirty, there was still no sign of Malcolm. Impatiently, I phoned his office, but disconnected the call before he had a chance to answer, before I could conclude that he was not there. Giving into fatigue, I finally went up to my room and slipped between the cool, clean linen sheets Mrs. Steiner had put on the bed that morning, and gratefully closed my eyes.

The days drifted by, all of us falling back into our former routines, and I noticed nothing amiss. Nothing, that is, until, crossing the foyer toward the kitchen one afternoon to plan menus with Mrs. Wilson, I was brought close to an attack of nausea by the scent of the lemon polish one of the maids had just applied to the French cabinets. Afterward, I went about the house, abstracted, with the weight of suspicion on my mind.

I felt the telltale ache, the twinges in my lower back that I expected, but days slipped by, uneventfully. Dismayed, and with a burgeoning panic, I counted days again and again, hoping I'd made a mistake, but the usual thirty-five had passed, and then more, justifying my worry. Dr. Braxten had been definite that what I suspected couldn't happen, but it was quite apparent that he was wrong.

Imminent motherhood was a state I should have welcomed. Malcolm would welcome the news, but that did not change my own feelings, which were, for the most part, no longer contingent upon his. Pregnancy made me feel impervious to him, and to the rest of the world, which was, I suppose, how I got through that strange, homesick first year at Foxworth Hall. Now, I had none of that first-time fascination left to mask my true feelings. I should have to pretend delight;  
I should have to endure the heightened regard people would suddenly have for me, which struck me as disingenuous.

I had accepted that I would have no more children, and so my feelings were mixed. I wanted to be happy, but happiness was always short-lived and not to be trusted. What could be trusted, however, was Dr. Braxten's word... or could it? If all went well, this would be the only blessing of the year, a Thanksgiving baby, born near the end of November-a gift to counteract the sorrow of losing my father.

That this wasn't the first time did not lessen my innate shyness about speaking of my condition. A week passed. There seemed no opportune moment in which to tell Malcolm. The boys were always present, and on the following Saturday, Matthew Allen and Anson Bromley lingered at the house for what seemed the entire evening, even staying to dinner. They talked of getting a weekly poker game together.

Finally, after the boys were asleep, I ventured into the trophy room, something I tried never to do. Malcolm disliked being disturbed there, and he'd retreated there because he hadn't had a moment to himself, all day. He was sprawled across the couch, and didn't move when I knocked and opened the door.

"I want a word with you." I said, not wanting to go farther than the doorway, but I crossed to a rocking chair, enjoying the luxurious feel of the fur rug under my bare feet. The rug was the only enjoyable thing about that room, for the trophy room, despite its spaciousness and the glow from the fireplace and one pewter bridge lamp, seemed oppressive. The black velvet curtains were drawn, and I noticed that most of the ashtrays were filled. "I've seen the doctor."

Malcolm poured himself a drink, and took on a self-satisfied expression, pleased with himself and proud of what he viewed as his own accomplishment.

"You shall have a daughter this time." he stated with a disquieting certainty.

I knew better than to try and reason with him.

Surmising Malcolm's reaction to any of Dr. Braxten's edicts, I disliked speaking of such things as I had to bring up next.

"There's something else," I said hesitantly, leaning forward. "Malcolm, there's to be no-" I twisted my ring, then tucked my hands into the folds of my skirt to end that nervous habit. "no physical stresses which would... endanger the pregnancy."

His expression soured, once he understood my meaning.

"But not until you're further on."

"No, he definitely warned that these first months... Malcolm, this is entirely different from before. You know what Braxten said-"

"Naturally."

"Naturally WHAT?" I asked, incensed. "This wasn't designed merely to inconvenience you."

I rose, and hastened to the door, before he could tell me to calm down.

"You do want this child born healthy, I presume?" I didn't wait for his affirmative answer. "Well, do try to keep that in mind."

Twice, Malcolm asked after my health, the only indication he gave that made me think he'd taken Dr. Braxten's concerns seriously. My appetite was good, and I experienced no sickness. But Malcolm, his grudge and mistrust of the man intact, insisted on engaging another, younger doctor to see me through my term.

When I expressed doubts of my own, Malcolm shrugged them off.

"I almost lost Joel, and-"

"But you didn't. You'll come through it, as you did before."

"I just wish you wouldn't tell anyone, right away."

"Nothing is going to go wrong." he said, dismissing my concerns.

Malcolm's interest in the details would wane as the months passed, just as it had when I carried the boys. During my first pregnancy, I tried to talk to him about it, but he kept himself distant. This was not unusual; men were not interested in such matters, but I had no one else to talk to, and it was, after all, Malcolm's child.

The knowledge that he would soon be a father had not made any impression upon Malcolm then, but I thought I'd seen the wonder of that reality dawning, for the briefest minute. Perhaps he'd been thinking of all the plans he had. His child would be spectacularly different from any other.

Tentatively, I'd taken heart at the momentary interest, but Malcolm's ideas were so firmly set and so specific, when he spoke of his son, that I was troubled. I thought back to that time, remembering it with wistfulness for a chance at making a better beginning, for that transition time, when I must have made some mistake. I wish I had known how to share the secretive, happy feeling of the baby's movements-of discovering something extraordinary-and surely, one's first child should be thought of as extraordinary.

"It's a natural process, Olivia. I don't see what there is to be amazed by, in that." he had said. It was all "sentimental nonsense," and so he retreated into a world his mind could grasp, the safe world of business, of numbers and the wealth they represented.

I did not expect any difference now, although occasionally, he talked about our daughter as if he knew what she would be like, and despite my misgivings,  
I suppose I began to think along the same lines.

I might call her Ellie, or Clarisse; I would know what was right, once I saw her. I dreamt of a little girl with auburn hair and azure blue eyes. She would be the perfect combination of our best qualities-a beautiful child, and more than just beautiful, she would be everything I hoped a daughter of mine would be. And yet, knowing the lack of patience and tolerance Malcolm displayed toward our boys, especially Joel, I did not feel altogether happy about bringing another child into our family.

Malcolm created things for a purpose, and once they were in being and serving that purpose, his concern with it diminished. Children were no exception. His interest would last for the first few weeks after the birth, and whenever the opportunity arose to show off his child to those whom might be impressed. He used to carry Mal around, like some prized trophy he owned, not seeing Mal as a small person with a unique personality, separate from his own identity and ambitions.

Despite all that I envisioned, I didn't want the new baby as I thought I should. I felt almost no connection to the intruder in my body and in my life.

I don't know why, at twenty-eight, I suddenly became so weary of my life. This manifested as physical exhaustion, my only awareness that there was a deeper problem.

Malcolm sometimes asked how I had spent my day, and it was a query I grew to dread, for I could not answer truthfully. After breakfast, once he left for work, I'd leave the boys in the care of Mary Stuart, and retreat to my room, emerging again fully dressed and with hair arranged, shortly before five o'clock, when Malcolm was due home. Before that hour, I slept a great deal, or simply lay on my bed, looking at the leaves carved into the cherry posts, or up at the satin canopy above, and I could not have said what my thoughts were. With all this inactivity, I still felt perpetually tired.

I didn't have the energy for another infant; I still had one. Joel, at nine months, was just beginning to crawl. He was still sickly. He rarely slept through the night, and I was just beginning to recover from the sleep deprivation of his first few months.

At four o'clock one morning, I sat rocking Joel, trying to quiet him, to get him to settle. Malcolm bustled through the door, strode across the nursery, and peered coldly down at me. He looked disheveled and tired, as did I, sitting there in my nightgown, with tangled hair.

"When does he sleep?" he asked, his voice raspy and desperate. I expected a tirade, and I knew I could not endure it.

"I don't know! When do I sleep?"

I stood up shakily, trying to suppress tears that were always so near the surface, ready to spill over. I put Joel into Malcolm's arms and fled the nursery.  
I rushed down the stairs and across the foyer to the darkened, airless parlor. Going to the window, I hooked my finger through the iron ring on the wooden frame, and pulled the latch to let the window swing inward. A breeze rang the minor notes from the wind chimes, and ruffled my hair as I stared out into the sweet-smelling spring night, and tried to get hold of myself.

All kinds of fears that I'd been trying to suppress rose up in my mind. What if the new baby was born with some defect, something more severe than Joel's frailty-which wasn't even a handicap? If Malcolm had such a problem caring for Joel, how could I hope for a better reaction this time, especially if the baby wasn't Malcolm's idea of perfection?-and God forbid, if it wasn't a girl?

I was not one of those women who enjoys pregnancy. This would have been true even if I'd had friends and family to pamper me. I knew I would spend the long winter days ahead battling uncontrollable emotions that must be subdued and hidden, sudden unexplainable bouts of anger and tears. It was easier to ascribe this to the turbulent emotional state of impending motherhood, than to recognize it as symptoms of any other unhappiness.

When my body grew awkward to live in-heavy and burdened, I would feel restless, inconsolable in my changes, the whole ordeal seeming to last forever. It was not the rainbow world of my fantasies. Reality seldom was as bright, but soon enough would come the months of serene acceptance, and when the baby came, I would love it, free of blame for the pain it had already inflicted in its brief existence. It was this certainty that I must cling to.

Joel had ceased whimpering and was finally asleep when I, somewhat less distraught, went back upstairs.

"I am sorry," I said quickly, before Malcolm spoke. "I shouldn't have..." Excuses were pointless. Malcolm should not have been disturbed. "How did you get him to sleep?"

"By giving him some gin." he muttered. "What do you think, Olivia? I've been walking."

It seemed I had been humming and walking with Joel for hours, to no avail!

"Do you think," Malcolm said softly, glowering fiercely, "you could take this baby of yours, now?"

I wrapped Joel in a blanket and laid him in his crib, relieved that he did not wake at the sound of our voices.

All was quiet, but for the clicking sounds as the wind stirred the wooden animals on the mobile suspended above Joel's bed.

"It wasn't like this, with Mal." Malcolm grumbled as he left the room.

After my uncharacteristic reaction, I doubted that I would see Malcolm in the nursery at that hour ever again. He did not speak of it, and I was quite embarrassed,  
and determined that such an outburst should never again occur.

Several times, I took my mother's diary from one of the pigeonholes of the escritoire in the salon, and paged through it in a daze of indecision. I read and reread her notes, the instructions and recipes she'd left. There were cryptically worded treatises on herbal remedies for all sorts of conditions and ailments. The one I kept going back to instructed one how to deal with "delayed" courses, if there was "the usual reason for concern."

As I surveyed the stock available on the drugstore shelves, I felt insufficiently informed to be making such a choice. There was already a jar of alum in my medicine cabinet, and such things as tansy, blue cohosh and cotton root were suggested in my mother's pages, but not to be taken in combination. The labels on the small opaque bottles weren't helpful, and I knew I must find another solution.

One afternoon during the boys' nap time, I went for a long walk, ostensibly, I told myself, to see if Olsen had trimmed the boundary hedges, but my true purpose was to search for some of the plants mentioned in her book. Once, I thought I'd found what I would need, and knelt on the ground, mesmerized by the power of possibility, gazing for long moments at the flowering plants. I did not have to be powerless... But I straightened, smoothed and dusted off my skirt, and made my way back to the house, empty-handed.

My emotions and my resolve were in a state of constant vacillation. For days I would eat well, just as I ought to, and on others I starved myself, fury simmering inside me, as Malcolm's child flourished, seemingly healthy. Malcolm's selfishness had put me in this position, making me terribly fearful after Dr. Braxten's veiled warnings.

Sometimes I felt ashamed; how could I not want this baby? Mal and Joel were the only source of joy in that gloomy house that confined and comprised my world.  
I loved them dearly. I marveled every day that they were mine, that together, Malcolm and I-amid all of our unhappiness-could have created anything as precious and different from ourselves as the boys were... but that didn't mean we needed a third child.

I was amazed by my sons' resilience, amazed that they could adapt and thrive in our tumultuous atmosphere. Malcolm's frequent indifference to them made me love them more, and made me more protective than I might otherwise have been, especially of Joel. They amused and fascinated me with what they could do, and how rapidly they learned.

Even at the age of three, Mal had a quick intelligence and an analytical mind, as he learned his numbers and letters, and struggled to put puzzle pieces in the proper places. (He even began to pick up a few German phrases from Mrs. Steiner, though Malcolm frowned upon this.) Joel struggled to stay healthy and had to be coaxed to eat, but I was convinced he would improve. My time was consumed with the two of them, watching them play, teaching them and caring for them. They were enough; my life was complete.

I waited for the clear conscience that doesn't come easily-or perhaps never comes-in such situations as mine. I searched for the reserves of courage that I knew I had, the courage which would let me dare to use the knowledge of the plants I had learned. My mother had left that knowledge to me, trusting that I would have gained the wisdom to be my own adviser. But I continued in a state of indecision, and nature took her course.


	4. Twilight Sleep

Chapter 6 insert-D

TWILIGHT SLEEP

"I looked for that which is not, nor can be,  
And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth:  
But years must pass before a hope of youth-  
Is resigned utterly." - Christina Rossetti, A Pause For Thought

The day began as any other uneventful Monday. I was making breakfast, for it was Mrs. Wilson's annual vacation week, and her temporary replacement had proven unreliable.

Malcolm pushed through the swinging kitchen door, as if he was already fifteen minutes late leaving for work. He peered at the contents of my mixing bowl, and raised his eyebrows in question.

"Isn't this what I pay servants to do, or have they all quit?" he asked, with a twist of the lips that could be taken for a smile, though his voice did not reflect that.

I wasn't amused.

"As a matter of fact, Mrs. Laskey has walked out, with no prior notice." I stated, querulously. "What would you like?"

"Just toast. I'm in a hurry. My God, Olivia! Are you completely oblivious to this racket?"

Joel was happily beating a pair of spoons against the wooden tray of his high-chair. Malcolm took them away, causing an even louder disturbance in the form of a vocal protest.

"Quiet!"

Mal looked up from his cereal to gaze in curiosity from one parent to the other.

"If he has something to occupy his attention, he'll quiet down, Malcolm."

"Quiet." said Mal to his brother, in a loud whisper.

"You must be hungry." I said to Malcolm. "You should have something besides toast. Sit down and have breakfast."

"Only if you can have it ready in the next five minutes. No, I'll just get something in town." He decided, taking an apple from a crystal bowl at the center of the table.

"You're so clever." said Mal to Malcolm, repeating something I often told Mal. Over the years as he grew older, it became something of a joke, often repeated to diffuse tension.

"I should hope so," he said, admonishing Mal to behave, today. "Olivia, I'll be late, this evening. I have to drive to Richmond, this afternoon."

I nodded, and turned back to my work.

Mal abandoned his breakfast to follow Malcolm out of the kitchen, loudly announcing that he wanted to go along. When he was told that he could not, the predictable tantrum ensued. Now I had two screaming children on my hands.

"You can go next week." I told Mal, knowing he did not understand the concept of "next week," and knowing I shouldn't make such a promise, even to a child young enough to have a short memory span.

Mal refused to be calmed. I lifted him onto the counter top, where he could kick and thrash about, but couldn't do any damage. He demanded to be let down, but I ignored him, until he stopped screeching.

I carried Joel's bowl of cereal across to the table, placing it carefully beyond his reach.

"Wait, Malcolm, if you're going past Timberlake, could you get-"

"I shan't have time." he said as he left, glad to be going, not waiting to hear what the request was. He hated being sent on other people's errands.

Was I so unimportant that he could not do the simplest of favors for me?

We didn't have a driver-Lucas had gone to Maryland to attend to some family obligation. This did not much inconvenience Malcolm, but I had to postpone my planned excursions for the week. Furthermore, Mal had developed a disturbing cough the day before, and I'd wanted to get a particular remedy.

Feeling as cross and as easily dismissed as a child, myself, I stalked back into the kitchen, my exasperation verging on rage, disproportionate to this incident.

"Mal, drink your juice." I said dully, falling into a chair to rest for a minute.

It was only seven o'clock in the morning, and already I had a headache, and the boys' nap time was hours away. They seemed to awaken earlier and earlier, in the mornings. The prospect of being trapped in the house all day, in this unseasonably high temperature, with two fretful children wasn't a good one.

For a moment, I resented Malcolm for going off, unconcerned, to stimulating conversations and pursuits, while I spent another monotonous day reading the same stories and nursery rhymes, and thinking up new ways of entertaining his sons. I was never given a word of encouragement, and never a break.

I rarely complained; Malcolm wouldn't have listened, and a contrary disposition would only make him stay away from home. But did I really want him home all day? Probably not, for his presence would agitate the boys, and he did not relate well to them.

On occasion, in those early years, Malcolm did try, but he frightened Joel by speaking too loudly, tossing him too high in the air in his attempt to play with the baby. It was always easier with Mal, though often, he reproved Mal when the little boy acted up, trying to win his father's full attention away from Joel, or from me.

Both boys learned to be cautious, and eventually Mal became a less affectionate child than I'd have liked him to be. If Malcolm saw Mal climb on my lap or kiss me, he would say that I was spoiling my son.

"He's getting too old for that sort of thing." was his frequent refrain, once Mal was past the age of five.

My glum spirits affected the boys, and Mal became nearly unmanageable, during the day. I often felt disagreeable, and at the end of my rope. Tears came all too easily, and I struggled to calm Joel and Mal into a better humor, in preparation for the time when Malcolm would arrive home, in the evening.

Malcolm's intolerance would only worsen matters, and he had already complained once that week of my peevishness. He could be brutally insensitive. I did not wish to give him cause for complaints, so I refrained from sharing the strain of my day with him, though he never extended to me the same courtesy.

That night as I finished putting the boys to bed, an agitated Malcolm appeared in the nursery. I signaled to him to keep quiet.

Mal was just drifting off; he had resisted all the way to bed. I'd read him three stories, before his eyes finally closed. I tucked his favorite bear in beside him, and pulled a second blanket over him. I switched on the night-light, and cautiously turned to leave the room.

"What is THIS?" demanded Malcolm, brandishing a letter. I recognized John Amos' handwriting. "I'd like you to tell me what he means by this."

"Who? John Amos?"

"What sort of "bond," he said this last scornfully, as if he spoke profanity, quoting from the letter, "What sort of bond do you have?"

"You're jealous." I said easily, and I must admit to enjoying the look of annoyance this provoked. Malcolm, in arguments, often accused me of jealousy, when he could think of no other ready insult.

Our exchange began upstairs, and progressed as we walked through the foyer and into the front parlor.

"Stop evading the question. You may call me many things, Olivia, but to say that I am jealous of anyone would be inaccurate. Anything anyone else has, or could have-"

"Keep your voice down, Malcolm." I admonished. "I've mentioned to you before that John might visit. You just chose not to hear it. You make it sound so...  
so indecent! He means," I said, gesturing toward the letter, "that we are family. He was such a comfort to me when I went to New London, that is all."

A vision of John's countenance flashed in front of me. I saw him sitting in my father's parlor, his knees drawn together, his eyebrows contracted into a wrinkle of frown. I saw his honest eyes, his concern for me.

"I suggested he might visit Foxworth-"

"Impossible! I won't agree to it." exclaimed Malcolm.

"I don't want to talk about this now, when you're determined to oppose anything I ask. I'm going to bed."

I brushed past him.

"To bed? But I've just come in."

"Well, if you didn't work until all hours, you'd have company in the evenings, when you come home."

"Is that why this cousin of yours is visiting?"

"Malcolm, I am tired. I don't feel well, and I'd rather not argue with you."

"Then write to this man and tell him this isn't a good time for a visit."

"Oh, all right!" I said, seeing that he wouldn't let it go, unless I gave in.

I left Malcolm alone with his newspaper, and went upstairs. But I could not sleep.

Later that night, I began to experience pain. It was a dull ache that grew in intensity, until a band of pain encircled my waist and lower back. Strangely, what was happening did not alarm me. The doctor had been wrong, I thought; there was no baby, only an overdue period.

I felt immensely relieved, even welcoming the discomfort that hourly swallows of the Lydia Pinkham liquid and raspberry leaf tea did not alleviate. My supply of flannel cloth-ordinarily enough to last a week-would not suffice, clearly. Still, it did not occur to me that what was happening wasn't normal.

At one o'clock, attributing my weakness to hunger, I went downstairs to make a sandwich. When even that small task proved too much, I poured a glass of milk, instead.

All at once, I felt light-headed. I just managed to put the glass down, before sinking to the floor in a faint. When I regained awareness, Malcolm was there,  
having come from the library when he heard me fall.

The medicine left me pleasantly withdrawn, but even so, I noticed his pallor. He was aware-even if I wasn't-that something wasn't right.

I should have known what was happening, but I can only conclude that I experienced a curious kind of mental block, induced by shock, in which one's mind refuses to accept the obvious.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I need to go upstairs," I kept saying, but he insisted that I not try to stand. I was beyond mortification, and I felt too weak to protest. I remained on the kitchen floor where I'd fallen, leaning against a cabinet.

Malcolm could be depended upon to take care of things, under pressure; his aloof but consistent steadiness was comforting. From the front hallway, I heard him begin to give instructions to Mrs. Steiner, whom undoubtedly disliked being summoned, at such a late hour. She would stay with Mal and Joel, until we returned.

"I've just looked in on the boys," Malcolm said in a level voice, as if nothing was amiss, as if to allay my concerns before I spoke them. "They're both asleep."

During the drive into Charlottesville, we said little, the tension reminiscent of the night when Mal had been born.

Both of my children had been born in the hospital, rather than at home, as was still customary, at the time. We had not been told much of what to expect, and when the time came, Dr. Braxten could not be reached. We both had been nervous, as Malcolm drove through a snowstorm to the nearest hospital, where an unfamiliar doctor tended to me. I was just as nervous now.

The waiting room was full. Tempers flared, complaints were ignored all around. One man had broken an arm while cranking his motor car. He claimed to have walked three miles after that, and was particularly strident in his demands to be helped.

I was taken to a room, and Malcolm was asked to wait elsewhere.

"How far along are you, Mrs. Foxworth?"

"About eleven, twelve weeks." I answered, as I was examined.

A second doctor was called to finish the procedure, which began to be more painful than I could endure. A sedative was administered.

I don't remember the point at which I dropped out of consciousness, but I must have. I dreamed. I remembered.

"You've been so brave! It's almost over-just a little longer now, and then you can rest."

My mother's voice came to me, through the haze of pain that bore my child toward life. She stood by my bedside, offering encouragement, as she smoothed the hair from my damp forehead. She let me hold her hand, endured my tight grip as the pains washed clear thought from my over-tired brain.

"Never... again!" I breathed.

"We all say that, but we never remember it after." commented the nurse, disengaging my hand. It had not been my mother, only a nurse who said she came from Boston. My mother's sweet voice, her presence beside me had been all in my mind.

It had still been snowing, that Saturday morning of Mal's birth, and I was far from home-far from anyone whom would comfort me. My room was full of flowers and cards from well-wishers, from people Malcolm knew and some he didn't, and none of it meant anything to me. These were congratulations for something which had happened to me before I had time to ask myself if I even wanted it. Other women did not question or doubt; this was the price of marriage.

"She's a good girl. Didn't carry on so, like most of 'em do, not until the end." the doctor had told Malcolm.

I heard only fragments of conversation after that. The baby weighed just over eight pounds. Malcolm was congratulated, as if it was all his own accomplishment, and not mine-not the result of seven long hours of anguish, which the doctor blithely referred to as an "easy, short labor."

"Mrs. Foxworth? Are you ready to see your husband? He's been waiting for hours. Come on, wake up now."

Ignoring the nurse, whose manner had grown imperious, I had dozed off again. Some time later, I awakened from my fog, looked around, confused. I panicked, and began to cry.

"Now, there's no need for that." said Malcolm, a trifle impatiently. "I've sent a telegram to your father. He ought to be here by the end of the week."

"Thank you." I murmured.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm all right." I'd claimed, though the truth was that my body felt battered, but the blood, the sensation of searing, bone-splitting pain, and the fear of not surviving it was not something I could tell Malcolm about.

"Good, good." he said, and started to turn away.

"The baby-"

"He's all right. A fine boy. I've already seen him."

I felt both relief and distress, and hadn't been able to stop my tears.

"They took him right away to clean and... whatever they had to do. What does he look like? Tell me, Malcolm."

"He looks like a baby." was Malcolm's unhelpful reply.

"When can I see him?"

It was Malcolm who brought our baby to me. In Malcolm's arms, the child looked tiny-smaller than he was. He had a lot of hair for a newborn, and he looked perfectly healthy. Carefully, Malcolm laid the warm bundle in my arms, and I looked down at the son who had instantly become the center of my world.

"Malcolm, he's precious."

"He's quiet now, at least. You'll wake him up if you keep on like that, Olivia."

"I can't help it. I don't know what makes me cry. I couldn't be any happier." I said, marveling at the velvety warmth of my baby's cheeks and his tiny,  
helpless, aimless hands.

"Well, what shall we call him?"

I was lucky, and so grateful. I felt such love at that moment for them both.

"I want him to have your name." I said. "Malcolm Neal."

I looked up from my son briefly, to see what Malcolm thought of this. He was so rarely happy. Times of being in his favor were few and far between, but on that morning I knew he was pleased. I had made him a father; I had given him what he wanted.

"Mal." he said. "We'll call him Mal."

"Mrs. Foxworth? Can you hear me?"

A different nurse spoke to me now, as I was jolted back into the present. I woke unwillingly, feeling as if I hadn't slept, but instead had been paralyzed for hours, my consciousness suspended.

I'd had a miscarriage, we were told.

"How can that be?" Malcolm asked the nurse. "The last time, they were able to prevent that from happening."

"Unfortunately, miscarriage is quite common, even for women who have had healthy children. The doctor will come in soon to answer your questions."

We waited, enfolded in silence.

Malcolm looked tired, his expression strained. I was not fully awake, but too edgy to sleep; whatever had been put through my IV line made me shiver, though I wasn't cold. All I could do was stare blankly out the window, where the sun was just coming up. It was a beautiful sunrise, but it was a lost sunrise; I had lost my daughter, or the hope for a daughter.

This was nothing like my previous visits-the awful time when I'd nearly miscarried Joel, and the month later when he'd been delivered by emergency Caesarian. Why couldn't it have gone as smoothly as Mal's birth? I hadn't known so at the time, but I had been fortunate. I had not been as fortunate today.

"I strongly advise you not to try and have any more children." said Dr. Raynham, gravely.

Recalling Malcolm's reaction to Dr. Braxten's judgment on this matter, I waited for Malcolm's vehement opposition. He managed to remain in command of his emotions, but his disappointment showed. Perhaps now he would believe the validity of Dr. Braxten's assessment.

"If you please, sir," he indicated that he wished to speak to Malcolm privately, but Malcolm refused. "If you intend on conducting sexual relations in future,  
I recommend that your wife undergo this procedure. It would be permanent, you understand."

"Permanent?"

"Salpingectomy is a fairly simple procedure. I'd like to schedule the date for the operation." said Dr. Raynham.

"No." said Malcolm.

Though it was the most practical solution, and I would have agreed to have the operation, had Malcolm given the consent that was required, I, too, felt uncomfortable with the finality of such a decision, particularly on that morning. There would be time later to realize all the implications.

"Talk it over, then." rejoined the doctor, as he turned to go.

"There is nothing to talk over. I won't agree to it, you understand?"

Dr. Raynham frowned, disapproving, but wisely, he did not comment.

"Malcolm, we don't have to make a decision this morning." said I, placating, then wondering why I bothered.

Although Malcolm and I both knew it would not happen, he seemed to need to hold on to the belief that it was still possible to have more children. Why did it matter so? How could a man possessed of such vast potential, who continued to achieve so much and live so well, feel incomplete?

"Very well," said the doctor, addressing me. "Come back in a month. I'll refer you to someone who can explain your other option." he looked toward Malcolm. "If not, this will probably happen again. You do understand the gravity of the situation?"

I felt chastised, and irritated.

"I'm ready to go home." I told Malcolm. All I wanted was to rest in my own quiet room, and to be away from this place.

And so we drove home, as silently as we'd left it; we went back to that house where, just yesterday, my child had been growing inside me. I'd been ambivalent, and so God had decided to lift that burden.

I was glad not to have much memory of that "minor" procedure which permitted my body to resume its natural courses. I was relieved to have it over. The drug was already gone from my system, but I was too listless to do anything but separate myself, to sit alone in the parlor, or lie in bed with my sin, my shame, my secret blood draining away-that which might have nourished the little hope I had let go of, that I had willed away. Such a little hope, that life. Such a little blood, and such a little time.

Dreamless sleep would be my solace; it would cleanse me, as I waited for my mind to forget what my body had already forgotten.


	5. New Influences

Chapter 6 insert-E

NEW INFLUENCES

"Here in a world without a sky,  
Without the ground, without the sea,  
The one unchanging thing is I,  
My self remains to comfort me." - Sarah Teasdale, White Fog

"I won't be needing it any longer, I suppose." I said, holding out the checkbook to Malcolm. Instead of taking it, he plucked a fountain pen from the onyx holder on his desk, and gave it an unneeded filling from the inkwell.

"I see." A peculiar light leapt into his eyes. "You won't be needing it." He repeated my words in a tone that presaged trouble.

"I'm sure the transfer will soon be completed for my father's accounts. I thought..."

"You thought what? That simply because you have a foolish whim to be independent, that you would go about making me the brunt of town gossip?"

"You know very well that wasn't what I meant."

"I won't have people saying that I can't or... that I am not in charge. What are you planning?"

"I don't know what you mean, Malcolm."

"Don't you?"

Malcolm had been particularly on edge lately-not surprising, perhaps, considering the past few weeks. He had seemed more approachable earlier this day, but now I regretted having mentioned this.

"It doesn't really matter, if you're going to take it like that. Must you always think the worst?" I said, taking back the checkbook.

The house had become unnaturally quiet, the servants having discreetly vanished into distant rooms, busying themselves elsewhere. I did not care in the least what the servants' opinions were, but the knowledge that they would talk about us behind my back filled me with shame.

I watched Malcolm stride out of the library, his back straight. Intimidation was what he did best, but I would not be worn down by this pointless sniping. I would be the stronger of the two of us./p

But I did not feel strong; I did not even feel angry. All I felt was an overwhelming lethargy.

There were days when I thought I could carry on as before, but the gloom never abated. I am ashamed to say that once, in a speculative way, I thought of ending my life. I did not envisage rescue fantasies. I ran the tips of my fingers over my unblemished skin, and thought of how I could cut myself-how willingly I would see my life drain away. I thought of how my suffering and bleeding would no longer be hidden.

I did not wish sorrow on anyone, only for my own to fade. How unfair to my boys abandoning them in such a cruel way would be-for they would be the ones most hurt, if left to grow up motherless, like Malcolm. One of my greatest fears, when I thought I'd have another child, was that, likely, it would have killed me. So how could I, intentionally, think of killing myself?

I tried to keep in perspective that this was just one season of my life, a very short time, compared to the time that had preceded it, and the time which would follow. Intermittently, rational thought would take hold, reminding me that I would make it through this, as I made it through every other difficulty, but depression isn't rational.

I tried, dejectedly, to go about my regular daily activities, but they tired me. I lost weight because I had no appetite, and no enthusiasm for all that I usually enjoyed.

The phonograph remained silent, unless Mal asked to hear music. Needlework kept the hands busy, but was an inadequate distraction. I went outside one evening with the thought of taking one of the horses out for a brisk ride-sometimes Malcolm and I did this on weekends-but even that did little to lift my lassitude.

I awoke naturally, and earlier than necessary to the carol of birds, at five-thirty, and having the best of intentions each morning, I dressed for the day, knowing that most likely, after involving Mal in one of his Bubble Books or some other diversion, I would take the first opportunity to languish in my room, like a neurasthenic Victorian lady.

Analyzing my problem did not help to pinpoint its cause. I hadn't much wanted the baby. In that first instant when I'd been told it was gone, I had felt relief to have been spared all I'd struggled with, so why did I feel so bereft? I was sure my father's death played a part as well, but I'd done most of my grieving in the weeks following my trip up north. This depression was nameless.

Dozing listlessly in the silence one afternoon, I wished that I could stay in the soft cocoon of my bed forever, slumped against the crocheted pillows, blankets pulled up to my chin. I opened my mother's diary, skimming, and read:

"July 1891

We went to hear Mr. Jackson preach last Sunday, and although some of his message was thought provoking, its delivery was off-putting and unseemly. The man has spent too much time among the followers of Calvinism, and similar harsh religious traditions.

It was so hot. I felt ill, and though Margaret passed me her fan and salts, I was obliged to leave before J. had quite finished his sermon. From Margaret's note of today, she may not soon forgive me, but I shall not go again.

It is better I seek the Sure Source as always I have, in silence.

"February, 1892

Our little girl came to us on the 17th, and all is well. I am recovering from the confinement, have not been able to leave my bed.

The nurse is kind, and brings the baby whenever I wish (not like that tyrant Mr. Jackson engages for my sister Margaret). How I wish I were stronger so Joseph could take us out driving. To-morrow, perhaps. For now, I wrap her up warmly, and keep her with me, so I may gaze for hours, and marvel.

I despaired of our child being born in February; winter babies seldom survive the year. Margaret has lost several to these harsh northern winters, so that she couldn't be as happy as I, at my news.

"I can't get used to the idea of you as mother, Connie." she said. (For all her trials, she still is not one.)

She brought good wishes and a vase of lilies (I dislike roses) when she and Jane Kimbrough came to see Olivia, for the first time.

That is what Joseph has named her, Olivia Kate.

I had rather set my heart on calling her Miriam. but I am glad he did not name our daughter after his mother.

... Daughter-how lovely it is to write that, after all."

"January, 1898

Joseph is home from his visit to Yarmouth Port, and is getting better, though he refuses to take cod liver oil. There is so much sickness about; I am in a panic each time he leaves the house.

Margaret's husband now has the fever, and she, soon to have another child. For her sake, I pray this one lives."

"April, 1900

My sister's husband has moved his family to Maine. We won't see them often. I think Joseph is secretly glad; he has never taken to Mr. J.

Olivia is growing quite missish, and too much a chatterbox. At times she is more outspoken than a girl ought to be. I fear it may cause her trouble, in future. Olivia isn't timid; Joseph has seen to that. But I do wish she had a more cheerful disposition. My daughter is so unlike me; she is a steadfast, quiet one, with eyes the color of the ocean.

Naturally, Joseph thinks her the most exceptional girl ever to live, but I am not so smitten that I cannot also see that she is willful. If this means she is also tenacious and healthy, I suppose I should be thankful. She is very much Joseph's daughter; I only wish... but it would not do to write such a thought.

Margaret says Olivia will surely look fully grown, by the time she is thirteen. I hope not, I would worry so! After what happened to poor Beryl..."

No great secrets would be revealed within these pages, and I was glad. I closed the book and hid it away in my dresser, beneath chemises and nightdresses, unable to read about my mother's quite natural worries, or her happiness.

What had become of that lively girl my mother had described? How had she become so superfluous-so invisible?

Spring was unfolding beyond my covered windows, but I could not bestir myself to go out and enjoy it.

The door opened and closed softly. I didn't move, didn't turn to see the intruder, only silently wished him away. I knew the scent of that shaving soap, which lingered faintly on the air after Malcolm vacated a room.

His heavy footsteps were muffled by the rug, as he crossed the room and pulled open the blue pleated curtain nearest the bed, to let in light. He switched on a lamp. Its teal frosted-glass shade cast out weak light that played over his face.

"What is this, Olivia?" asked Malcolm, obviously annoyed, but holding his temper in check. "Have you called the doctor?"

I could not respond.

"Luise Steiner called me. She thinks there's a problem." he paused. "Shall I ring Braxten?"

He waited another minute, then touched my shoulder in a tentative way.

"Are you unwell?"

"It's all gone wrong." I said, my voice thick with the effort not to cry. "I-I have failed."

"You're simply overwrought."

He made as if to give me his handkerchief, but finding he hadn't one, reached across to the sewing cabinet that served as my nightstand. Pulling open a shallow drawer, he rummaged until, in my glove box, he found a handkerchief, and pressed it into my hands.

"This will pass. I won't hear this kind of talk. We don't fail-you do not fail." he continued, as if repetition of the words would make it so.

"Have you been taking this?" he asked sharply, seeing a bottle of Veronal capsules in the drawer.

I shook my head, wondering if he believed me.

"Get up and get dressed. I did leave an important meeting; I'll have to be back by two, but we shall have lunch in town first. You can do some shopping, if you wish."

Did he think a shopping excursion was a solution?

I started to reply that I did not want to go anywhere, but then thought better of it. This was the most concern he had shown for me in weeks, and I couldn't fault him for trying. Since I did not know what else would have made me feel better, his was as good a suggestion as any other.

"You didn't come all the way home for... for this, surely."

"No." he said, regarding me, before producing an envelope. "No. This appears to be from your father's attorney. A Mr. Teller?"

"You opened my mail?"

"It was mailed to my office." he said, his narrowed gaze remaining riveted on me.

I reached for the envelope, extracted the papers and swiftly perused their content.

"So, you are independent, it seems."

"I'll be ready to go in a few minutes," I said, as if I hadn't heard-a tactic he often used, dismissing one with indifference. "I need to speak to Mary, and then we can leave."

Malcolm started for the door, then turned back, as if just deciding something, and casually produced a small box. From it he withdrew a gold filigree bracelet, and fastened it to my wrist, where it fit securely with a kind of buckle effect.

"It's very pretty." I said, astonished.

I turned my wrist this way and that, admiring the bracelet's array of intricate, tiny engravings of violets, starburst circles, feathery leaves and scrolls, and three small diamonds which caught the light.

"Some of these belonged to my grandmother, Rosamond Foxworth."

I examined the contents of the box, which held some very old and lovely heirloom pieces, much finer than the simple bracelet.

"But why are you giving them to me?" I asked. It wasn't my birthday, or any occasion, and I could not give him a daughter to inherit these valued pieces.

"You should have them," he said, then after a pause he brusquely added, "for safekeeping, I suppose."

Malcolm, about to take his leave, remarked captiously, "No doubt my father would give it all away."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that, Olivia." he said, as he left the room.

Indeed, things must have fallen to an unacceptable state for Mrs. Steiner to have alerted Malcolm. Of course I should have had a word with her about it, but I never did, for it would have been too humiliating. I put the matter out of my mind when I opened my closet, and felt disproportionately grateful for the unflagging efficiency of my housekeeper, as I looked over the neat row of clean, pressed dresses that hung there.

As quickly as I could manage, I ran a brush through my hair, found my gloves and stepped into my shoes. I was expected to pretend that all was well, and I was becoming an expert at creating appropriate facades.

I found Mary in one of the small rooms off the foyer. She agreed to give the boys their lunch.

Mal, who sat on the floor amid a jumble of toy soldiers and train cars, was too absorbed in building a block castle of questionable symmetry to notice my departure. Joel, when he saw me, shrieked and crawled toward me. I picked him up, pressed my nose to his, which made him laugh. I kissed the almost invisible line of his blonde eyebrow, put him down again and gave him a toy, then escaped without incident.

Malcolm and I shared a rather good lunch in near silence, then parted ways, as planned.

After spending an hour being shown various hats and dress gloves, and discussing the inappropriateness of certain new fashion trends with an over-enthusiastic salesgirl, I almost managed to leave empty-handed, before a skirt the right color and length was located. Escaping the perfumed air of the shop into the crowded street, I wandered along slowly, looking idly through windows, until I came to a jewelry store.

I entered the shop to pass some time looking into its display case, first at a sapphire ring which was stunning, and had an equally stunning price tag. Then my attention was drawn to a brooch, flower-shaped, with small diamonds and scroll decoration on the edges of the petals. It reminded me of one of the Foxworth portraits that hung in an out-of-the-way corner.

The woman in that painting was-aside from myself-one of the few dark-haired Foxworths. She was perhaps thirty-five and remote-looking, with that pin (or one very like it) affixed to her high-collared, ruffled dress. There was no nameplate on the gilt frame of the portrait, and Malcolm, when asked, did not know her name or precise place on the family tree, just that she had never married.

I liked to pause and take in her serene expression, when I walked past, hoping my observance of it might bestow that quality upon me. Seeing this pin, holding its cold sparkling weight on my palm, was in some odd way, reassuring.

I wasn't at all sure the pin was anything I would ever wear, but appreciating the fact that she did not try and use my hesitation to push a sale, I asked a question of the woman behind the counter. She hastily put aside the Harper's Weekly she'd been reading.

"I am not the expert. You see, I'm only here as a favor to my brother-in-law. He owns the shop. He's gone to Harrisonburg, this afternoon. From time to time I help him out when my business is slow."

"Your business?" I asked, genuinely intrigued by the thought of a woman owning something independently.

I peered at her with more interest. She had delicately molded features, was slender of build and quite tall-perhaps five-nine or -ten, and smartly dressed-very modish. She introduced herself as Millicent Hanscomb, and said she was a seamstress.

"I work a few blocks down," she said, describing the location.

"It's quite likely that you'll soon be seeing me. There are a few things I need to have made, and I just don't have the time to do much sewing. It has never been one of my talents, anyway."

I was surprised by my own words, for up until that very moment, in spite of my earlier foray into the dress shop, I hadn't been interested in anything, much less new dresses. It had been a long time since I'd known the thrill of feminine excitement which a new dress can give. The prospect cheered me almost as much as did the affable conversation.

"I know what you mean about not having much free time. I have a three-year-old daughter, Caroline-Carrie, we call her."

Millicent told me about her daughter, and later, I learned that Millicent's husband had died in the Great War, a month before his child's birth. This piece of information was delivered with a curious lack of emotion.

Millicent told me about her brother-in-law who owned this shop. She told me about Isabel Bertram, a friend of her mother's who had played a significant role in Millicent's upbringing, and who now helped out by watching the little girl, Caroline, while Millicent worked.

We talked of books and of a picture Millicent had seen, Way Down East, which she wanted to see again.

As unlikely a friendship as it may seem, Millicent and I discovered common interests, and much to like in each other. She was self-sufficient and independent. She was satisfied with her modest circumstances, with her work, and by raising her daughter alone. I couldn't imagine living her life, and she had no aspirations for one such as mine.

I appreciated her openness, and her acceptance of me as I was, for it was something I didn't encounter, especially among the women in the social circles that Malcolm and I moved in. Millicent was not part of that, although she was superficially acquainted with most of them because of the work she did.

"Now that one," she said, breaking off in mid-sentence and lowering her voice when one of the other customers left the shop. "if she had another button undone, she could, as my mother might say, serve up her wealth on a platter."

Startled, I looked after the woman, and smothered a laugh-the first time I'd laughed in weeks. What she'd said was unkind, but true, and I had no reason to defend the woman who had just left-Amanda Biddens.

Mrs. Biddens went out of her way to attract the attention of men, as I'd found out firsthand. She did not live with decorum and decency.

"She believes in brevity," I agreed. "she's cut her hair unflatteringly short."

Mrs. Biddens would have a child three years later, her first, and motherhood would mellow her. With an attempt at a friendly overture, wanting advice, she would approach me as if there had been no impropriety in the past-as though she had not made a spectacle of herself with my husband. I did my best to avoid her. I couldn't accept the olive branch, for it had never been easy for me to relinquish a grudge.

I'd learned that it was well known that Mrs. Biddens' husband was a drunk, and violent toward her, and was the cause of her frequent emergency hospital visits. Why did she stay and permit it? I was sure that if I found myself in such a position, I would not stay, nor would I seek to replace one violent husband with another.

Standing with Millicent and watching Amanda's retreating back, I marveled at all the kinds of sorrow women can live with, and still find strength to go on. It took years for me to understand Millicent's particular kind of strength, and to realize that she did not view the circumstances of her life as a trial.

"Mother and I saw you once-it must have been last fall, because Mother remarked on how pretty your coat was, and your hair. You were just coming out of the Amesbury building, and you were holding a baby."

As one who has few friends, I felt that I was seldom noticed, as though I went about under a cloak of invisibility, though this was, of course, not true-could not be true simply because Malcolm was so eminent a figure in our small community.

"My husband keeps an office in that building." I said.

Malcolm, predictably, would later pronounce Millicent Hanscomb unsuitable company. He said she was common, that her clothes were garish and that she wore too much perfume. None of this was quite true. He never approved of her visiting Foxworth Hall, which she rarely did, in any case. Fortunately, he expressed his voluble opinions to me, alone.

"Is this a gift for someone special?" she asked brightly, as she began to place the brooch in a box. I had decided against buying it, but I found I couldn't say so.

"Yes," I said. "it is. It's for myself."

"Ah, you're the very limit! I like that." she smiled.

"Don't trouble yourself; I'll just wear it." I said, gesturing to the tiny box.

I pulled the passbook out of my purse and happily wrote out a check for an item which Malcolm, with his parsimonious mindset, would object to, viewing it as an unnecessary, frivolous expense.

Millicent glanced at the check as I handed it over. Her eyes widened a fraction in recognition as she read the name on it.

"I met your husband before Christmas, when he came in to select your watch." she said. "I wrapped it for him. How clever of him to remember that it would match your ring."

I assumed it to be a coincidence.

"He must have an extraordinary memory for details."

"Yes, I suppose he has." I said laconically.

"Most men-" she shrugged, leaving off the rest of a common pastime of women: complaining about the faults of their men.

Something in my expression must have cautioned Millicent to drop this line of talk. I never engaged in such pointless commiseration; it is bad form. It would not change anyone, and the difference between myself and the other wives was that beneath their petty grievances, their marriages were still happy-happier than mine could be.

"David didn't believe they would sell so well, but the new wristwatches are quite popular."

"It is more convenient than a pendant or pocket watch." I agreed. "I'll see you next week-on Wednesday, I should think."

"Come in a bit early, if you can, and we'll have tea. You can bring the baby, of course."

"Well," I said uncertainly, "I have two children."

"Bring them both." she smiled, and I detected no falseness in her manner. "Isabel won't mind watching them."

It would be good for Mal to have another child his own age to play with, I thought. Everyone we knew at that time had older children, or none.

"I'm glad to have met you." she said, her light blue eyes following me as I walked toward the door. I was glad, too. Getting away from home and meeting Millicent had lifted my spirits.

Despite the anxieties that would multiply by next week-(what could I find to talk about? What if Mal did not behave? What if I couldn't force myself to leave the fortress of Foxworth Hall, or my nervousness spoiled the day?)-I was determined to go to Millicent's shop. It would be lovely to see unfamiliar rooms; it would be wonderful to be invited into the life of another for a few hours, to talk to someone whom wanted my company.

And if that went well-my thoughts leapt ahead-perhaps, instead of sending Olsen, I would visit nurseries in search of certain perennials I wished to have for our gardens. I might even reply to Mrs. Murphy's polite note, and accept her luncheon invitation for next Monday afternoon. Perhaps life would begin to seem like something I could once again manage, and if not... If not, it was finally clear to me that I should consult a doctor.

Into the Timberlake drugstore I stopped, where on weekdays, Malcolm sometimes ate breakfast, and that was where I found him, animatedly speaking to Edward Camden.

"Unpredictable market fluctuations have unfortunately caused unforeseen losses to many of our largest operators."

"Personally, I would consider the coming six months a much more propitious time to trade than the past half year." said Malcolm, and then, seeing me, "Where have you been? You were to be here ten minutes ago. What is all this?" he grumbled, taking one of my packages.

"Bought out all the shops, did you?" laughed Camden. "It's what you ladies like best to do."

Such condescension would wear on my nerves if I had to hear more of it, so I forced a smile, left them to conclude their conversation, and made a few small purchases.

Aside from Malcolm's telling me that he had to leave for a two-day business trip to Chicago the following week, the hour's drive home passed without conversation.

In those days, the law was that automobiles could not be driven over eight miles an hour, in town, and those with horses still had the right of way. Malcolm, chafing at restrictions of this kind, cursed under his breath, when required to pause at corners to ring the bell, and wait.

Once outside of Charlottesville, however, speed could be increased, and conversations safely carried on. But Malcolm was absorbed in thoughts known only to himself, until, as we neared the house, he broke the silence.

"Olivia, what happened today-" He took his eyes off the road for an instant and glanced at me, to be sure I was listening. "I don't want to revisit this. My wife does not have a nervous collapse."

I suppose it was meant as a vote of confidence, but it sounded more like a command.

"I've received word that, unfortunately, we will soon have visitors to contend with. I will need your help."

It was a symptom of my mental and emotional exhaustion that I had no curiosity about this statement, nor did I wonder if this was what had been troubling him. On that day, Malcolm did not offer further explanation.

Did Malcolm think I could lock away my emotions as easily as he could? Unlike him, I did not know how to numb frustration and hopelessness, and pretend it didn't exist. But neither could I unburden myself and speak freely.

If I attempted to share my unhappiness with him, his reaction was dismissive. I would have to bypass Malcolm's own self-absorption before such a conversation could take place. He would feel that his dignity was compromised by the mere fact of listening. Sometimes, he just walked away, as if what I felt was not to be acknowledged, as if, by ignoring my feelings, they would disappear or change. At times he looked at me as if I were slightly crazy.

"You must shake off this self-pity and be a mother to our children." was all he would say.

Just what did he think I'd been doing? I cared for nothing else but the children-until now-until Millicent's friendship became something to rely upon, somewhat diminishing my isolation, but that did not happen immediately.

The days and years stretched out, one blurring into another, devoid of goodness. I felt withdrawn, watching from a distance as some half-functioning part of myself went about my affairs, while Malcolm went about his, almost as though I did not exist.

I had once been interested in the details Malcolm revealed about his work, and at some point in the future, I would be, again. Lately, though, I had not been as interested in hearing about the successes that comprised what was, to Malcolm, the most important part of his life. He rarely balanced his descriptions out with any mention of the failures which he must surely experience, and even that began to irritate me.

It was as though he needed, constantly, to prove himself. He had to prove that every decision he made was right. Sometimes I thought that he wanted only approbation, not my input. I hadn't signed over my inheritance for his management, and he was still too disaffected by that to want my opinions on anything else.

That night, I had such a lifelike dream that it stayed with me for days, bringing to light something I must have begun to fear.

Something troubled Malcolm. Precisely what this might be came to me, with timorous dread. I could not ask him about it, and in so doing, put into his head an idea which may not have occurred to him.

In the dream, he kept asking for the book, among other questions which I did not later remember. I seemed unable to walk away from his merciless interrogation. I didn't bother to pretend not to know that he meant my mother's diary.

"It's in New London." I lied, for in fact the book lay in plain sight, on an occasional table. In true dream fashion, he looked right at it, but didn't see it.

"I forgot to pack it, what with getting most of the furniture into storage. I was in such a hurry to leave. Why, I almost missed the train."

Not wanting to overstate or to babble, I stopped. My voice came out steady, not betraying apprehension. His gaze held for another minute, then his eyes slid away.

"I wish you would not read what isn't meant for you; you're sure to misunderstand."

"If I ever see that book, I will burn it." He pronounced each word clearly, so that they lodged in my memory as a reminder that he couldn't be trusted-a lesson I had yet to learn in waking life. "I will turn it into ashes, just as I did to my mother's letters."

"How dare you bring your mother into this! Your mother was nothing like mine, and more to the point, I am not like your mother-or have you forgotten that?"

I asked him that several times over, but he didn't respond.

"You keep in mind what I said, Olivia."

Such a scene was baffling, until, waking, I understood the connections he must have made, the motives his twisted mind had assigned to me. It was frightening, certain as I was that no amount of reassurance would ever part Malcolm from his doubts, if ever he truly harbored them.

Despite the doctor's asseveration to the contrary, what if Malcolm had convinced himself that the miscarriage was my fault? To Malcolm's way of thinking, there were no accidents, and his wishes and plans had been rejected (the checkbook incident would be seen as further proof of this.)

It was like standing in a doorway between two dimensions, living under this tension, not knowing what was a true cause for concern and what was not. I existed under a dark cloud that did not diminish, but changed form gradually, as influent forces came into play at Foxworth Hall.

"I don't think much of the way your father has abandoned everything, expecting you to manage it all on your own, for nearly four years." I said, then hastily added, "I know you prefer it this way, but I do think it's inconsiderate of him."

"Do you?" he asked, looking up from his paper, surprised.

Malcolm had never complained that the extra work was too much. He had, however, made his opinions of Garland's irresponsibility known, since telling me of his father's impending arrival, due to happen one week hence.

"What sort of person takes a three-year honeymoon trip? That's extravagant, by anyone's standards." I said.

"Once you've met him, you will probably forget everything you're saying now. He tends to win people over."

I thought of the genial smile in all pictures of Garland, and could believe that.

"My God," said Malcolm, the week after, as we stood in front of the house on that mild spring evening. "she's pregnant!"

I was stunned; I felt too injured to speak, but Malcolm's constricted exclamation could have come from my own lips, for his shock mirrored mine, to a degree.

Malcolm glanced my way, but for his own agitation, I didn't think he considered mine. Perhaps I did underestimate him, but I was sure he thought only of his inheritance being halved.

With my first glance at the young woman, I felt a familiar sinking sensation, felt that, I-in my new soft green dress and peridot hair-clasp which I thought complemented my auburn hair and pale coloring-was that much plainer than I'd been five minutes before. But no, it was not so trivial a feeling as that. Was it envy-a natural enough reaction, given recent events-or was it some premonitory dread that spread an inexplicable chill through me, at my first sight of Alicia Foxworth?

I felt Malcolm's hand resting on my back, and I straightened, regaining composure, and we managed, somehow, to greet Garland and his new wife. We did not go forward to meet them, for I doubt we could have, but waited on the columned, wide front portico for them to come to us.

"This," Malcolm said importantly, pronouncing his words slowly, so as to make me wonder later about such emphasis and its meaning, "is Mrs. Malcolm Neal Foxworth. Olivia."


	6. Facets of Truth

Chapter 12 insert

(page 221)

FACETS OF TRUTH

If affection be not the governing principle in a household, domestic life may be the most intolerable of despotisms. - A. R. Calhoun

Everyone seemed drawn to Alicia; men, of course, were captivated. The women became her instant friends-those same society women with whom I'd been unable to cultivate more than acquaintanceships.

Everyone Alicia met seemed to find her charming, yet I simply couldn't bear her naive ways, and her uncultured manners often embarrassed me. Alicia's temperament and mine were like oil and water-simply not compatible, although friendly overtures were made on both sides, for I didn't dislike her-not always, not from the start. It is difficult to remember that now, so difficult to reconcile all the threads that unraveled our lives through those three years, hundreds of seemingly insignificant incidents which added up to such a tangled tragedy.

Each of us had his own internal battle: Garland with his health concerns that he kept secret from all of us, Malcolm grappled with his obsession with Alicia, which he let get out of hand, and with my own private discontent, the atmosphere was growing strained. None of us would have wished events to turn as they did, though something was bound to change. Tensions were numerous, and present, but not always as evident as on one particular late March evening, several weeks prior to the night of Garland's heart failure.

Malcolm and I were sitting in the parlor, following our dinner out. The heavy meal and the wine, which we chose to enjoy at home, lulled me into a pleasant half doze, disturbed when Alicia wandered in. Malcolm and I had not been speaking, and so she couldn't have known anyone occupied the parlor.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in what I thought was genuine surprise. "I wonder when Garland will be home. It's not like him to be so late."

Alicia perched on a chair, prepared to wait.

"Did you enjoy your dinner? I didn't know you were going out. Was this a special occasion?"

It was an occasion of sorts for Malcolm, but neither of us wanted her to know it, and make a fuss over what didn't concern her.

"Not really." I said, when it was evident that Malcolm wouldn't answer.

"How is poor Joel faring?" she asked me, in a further attempt at conversation, though she knew very well the answer.

Joel had been quite ill, lately. For a week, I'd sat by his bed, feeding him broth and then milk from a teaspoon, when he wouldn't take any other nourishment, and conferring with the doctor, each afternoon. I was grateful to Alicia for looking after Mal so I could devote my attention to Joel. I was relieved that he seemed to be mending.

"He is much better." I said, with a reproving look toward Malcolm, who had not asked after Joel, that evening.

"Then he ought to be able to resume going up for classes, with Mal." said Malcolm, who did not know that I now only allowed Joel to attend Mal's classes twice weekly.

"Alicia," I said, hoping to avert a discussion of Joel's lessons, for Simon Chillingworth was still a sore point between Malcolm and myself. Had it been in my power to do so, I would have gladly discharged the man from our employ. "speaking of that, Mr. Chillingworth says he is perfectly willing to teach Christopher, as well. He's a bit young yet, I realize-"

"The boy isn't too young to begin learning. He needs discipline. Joel is just three, and it hasn't done him any harm." put in Malcolm, as if the matter of Christopher was his business.

Alicia stammered in confusion. She couldn't bring herself to criticize Mr. Chillingworth's methods before Malcolm, I knew, for she never seemed able to cross anyone, and she particularly would not risk inciting Malcolm's anger in any situation pertaining to the children. Her deferential manner irritated me to the point of deliberately baiting her.

"But surely, having both Joel and Christopher present would be a distraction to Mal, as he studies." said Alicia.

Malcolm didn't reply.

We lapsed back into silence, until she began talking about random, inconsequential matters-the same unimportant things she'd been gabbling about, all day. First it was Christopher's upcoming birthday, then Garland's vacation plans for the summer, which included a long overdue visit to Alicia's ailing mother.

Alicia couldn't cope with silence, and in her stubbornly cheerful obtuseness, wouldn't leave. I sensed Malcolm's irritation, and I could have left then, and no doubt Alicia would have followed me upstairs. But I felt disinclined to do so. Why should Malcolm's evening be peaceful when my day hadn't been?

"I've left that blue sunshade I borrowed from you somewhere, Olivia. You haven't seen it, have you?"

Malcolm set aside his glass and folded his paper, and I expected to see him go off in a temper to the library, as often he did.

"Perhaps," he said, "having little more to do with your days than listening to nursery rhymes, has dulled your ability to concentrate so much that you cannot perform a task as simple as keeping track of what belongs to you."

My stomach clenched in anxiety. Living with Malcolm made one feel constantly on edge. He was adept at voicing the most crushing of personal remarks. I was glad that, for once, these were not directed toward me. I kept my eyes on my book, as if I hadn't heard. Alicia went from the room.

"Was that necessary?" I asked quietly, my question sounding dispirited, to my own ears.

"Her constant chatter gives me a headache. I am entitled to a little peace, in the evenings." he retorted, as he walked with me to the foot of the stairs. "I should think you have enough of her company during the day."

"Try to think of how she must feel."

"Why? Do you suppose she ever thinks so much of you? Do you imagine she cares for your feelings, or mine?"

"I don't know. But that doesn't mean you can't-"

"My father and she have certainly never shown any restraint or courtesy in the presence of anyone. You can't deny that. Always forcing others to be witness to their private exchanges. It's unseemly. Inconsiderate. They have no sense of propriety. Surely, Olivia, you won't disagree."

"No." I said quietly.

"I'll be up, soon." he told me.

I made no reply, but climbed the stairs slowly, wearily. I rounded the corner to the south wing, and there stood Alicia, clutching a towel, pink soap, and bundle of clothes, looking flushed and embarrassed.

"What are you doing?" I asked crossly, abashed, myself, and too irritated that she'd overheard a private conversation, to begin to go through the motions of making apology for Malcolm. What he'd said was true, anyway.

"I-I found your parasol."

"Keep it."

"I'll talk to Garland tomorrow." she said in a hoarse, timid voice. I wondered if she would cry. I had no patience for that.

Of course I wished her distress would be incentive enough to prompt Garland into moving his family out of Foxworth Hall, but as soon as the thought crossed my mind I realized that she must not speak to Garland. If he should become angry enough to leave, and possibly change his will to exclude Malcolm, I did not want to contemplate what effect such a decision would have on Malcolm. I would not like to see him lose what mattered so much to him.

"Did you want the bath?" she asked hesitantly. I glared at her, and she hurried into the Swan Room.

Two families cannot share a house comfortably, no matter the size of the house. Why did Garland not recognize this fact? Why did Alicia, so much in love as she was, not wish for her own home with Garland and their son? If just one of us had pressed for some sort of change, things might have been so very different.- - - -

I was shaken from a fitful repose by the oath that Malcolm muttered upon entering my room, as he stumbled over a trailing electrical cord. He did not put on a light, and the fire had long since burned down to embers. It was well into summer, but there was a chill in the air, the same chill that seemed to pervade my disturbed dreams.

I pulled the covers more tightly about my shoulders, and sat up enough to see the clock, across the room.

"What is it? It's a quarter past two!"

Malcolm was a chronic insomniac, but did that mean my rest had to be interrupted, as well?

"My dear Olivia," he said in a conciliatory tone, as he caressed my cheek in a parody of affection. I wanted to fling his hand away; his touch was repulsive! I sensed a tension in him that was dangerous, and I wanted to get him out of my room, at once.

I was startled, but not altogether surprised to see him. Earlier in the evening, we'd argued over a rumor I'd heard, which concerned his recent activities in town. I imagined somewhere, there was a woman involved. Alicia's imprisonment had begun, and combined with that trouble with which I was still dealing, I was furious.

Although I lacked concrete proof, or details, I had, once again, stormed into his study, lashing out, relentlessly accusing.

"You have compromised me in so many ways; you have robbed me of my dignity-"

"No one can do that, Olivia. You do that yourself. You degrade yourself by being typical, by indulging in this common, female behavior."

"My behavior?" I pressed my lips together, trying to modulate my voice. "My behavior. No, we are talking about your behavior, Malcolm. You thrive on conflict, which is why you don't make much of an attempt to conceal what you do. Don't tell me I am mad. You see, you are also ineluctably predictable."

"Unlike YOU, of course." he said with a smirk. I ignored that.

"And don't tell me again that you were tempted. I don't want to hear how, unlike everyone else, you can't be held accountable for your own actions." I stepped back, scrutinizing him, as if just discovering some new facet of truth.

"I expected better of you." I said quietly, as though all I felt was extreme disappointment.

"We had a contract," I continued, careful not to talk of feelings-I did not need another rebuff, on that score. "I thought you could keep your word, if nothing else. You dishonor yourself with this-this tawdry business, and you have dishonored me."

Malcolm just stood there; there was nothing he could say.

"I won't tolerate this, Malcolm! Do you understand? I will not stand for it!" I had raged, despite my resolve not to give into hysterical ranting.

He seemed to shake himself out of his temporary paralysis, and regarded me with an amused, cool look.

"Then do something about it, Olivia." he whispered into my ear, taunting. He tried to grasp my arm, but I swiftly stepped aside, just out of reach.

"I mean it, Malcolm. I won't permit this." I said warningly. "You think this is a game."

He shook his head.

"Has it ever occurred to you," he said with an air of forced patience one uses with a slow-witted child, "that what you hear might be gossip-just mean-spirited, unfounded gossip?"

"Unfounded? I doubt that."

"Who came to you with these tales? Colleen Demerest and her set? Unscrupulous harpies, all of them, as you well know. They are jealous."

I was so taken aback that I laughed.

"Don't patronize me, Malcolm. Jealous?" I scoffed. "Of what?"

He shot me a hateful look.

"I will not permit this pattern of irresponsible behavior you've fallen into to continue. You have no right to-"

"No right? In Foxworth Hall, I can do whatever I wish."

"So can I," I said softly, "and you'd do well to remember that."

We glared at each other, and then he turned away, refusing to continue the argument. But now, he was here, apparently more prepared to finish it.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"Olivia," he said in mock surprise, "I thought you'd be more welcoming. I thought you'd be happy I'm here, at home."

"Why would I be? It's not in my nature." I said snidely, repeating his cruel words of months before, with undisguised bitterness.

"By your own choice, Olivia."

"No, by your own design, Malcolm. I think you want it that way so you'll have an excuse to do what you know you shouldn't."

"That's ridiculous." he said, but his protest lacked conviction.

"Please leave, Malcolm. There is nothing more I wish to say on the subject."

That was the moment to have moved, to attempt to divert Malcolm's intention, but I did neither. I could not scream. I could not scratch his face, or knock a lamp over as Alicia had done, trying to fight him off. I was his wife.

Although our relations had never been what I'd hoped, I could not recall ever feeling as desperate to avoid an encounter. There is quite a difference between the suspicion of infidelity, and knowing beyond doubt that the ignominy has occurred.

Alicia's confession kept replaying ceaselessly in my mind, like a scratched phonograph record, as well as Malcolm's response to my confrontation. I felt sickened by what he'd claimed, although I rejected much of it as lies, lies which reinforced the deceit of which I knew he was capable, lies that revealed unsavory truth that I was pained to know, about my own husband.

"You're looking very well, for a woman in your condition." he said, his gaze sliding down to my flat stomach.

I couldn't believe Malcolm could be insensitive and brash enough, even now, to ridicule me, for after all, his selfish lust had led to this situation! I was outraged, which was clearly what he intended.

"You see, Olivia, there are advantages to this arrangement that I hadn't realized, before."

"Take your hands off me this second, and get out! You're contemptible!"

Disregarding this, he twined one hand into my loose hair, roughly forcing me to look up at him. I recognized that quick, knowing look. His confident, possessive gaze, by which I had been so entranced upon our first meeting, swept over me. Such a look left no place for questions, and no choice.

He kissed me then, forcefully, toying with my lower lip with his teeth, his mouth harsh and bruising. Unbuttoning my gown, he pushed the sleeves from my shoulders.

"Malcolm, wait. I can't." I said, trying in vain to twist away, but I could not get free of him.

He ignored my sibilant protests, and finished undressing me. He always insisted on doing so himself, needing to dominate every situation.

"Can't? Don't try to tell me it's your monthly-"

I flinched.

"It makes no difference to me... but I know that was weeks ago, so do what you must." he said, releasing my arms. I didn't move.

"Your husbandly considerations are truly admirable." I said caustically, my cheeks burning.

"Go on-unless you're willing to take a chance." he said, grasping my shoulder roughly. "Hurry."

I hesitated, staring into his stormy blue eyes, challenging. Some foolish part of me wanted to rebel, to be reckless and do what would put an end to this absurd arrangement, this charade we were playing out with his father's wife.

If I really were pregnant, Alicia would be obliged to leave, to face her hard luck and deal with the consequences of what she had allowed. Malcolm would have no use for her then; he had already lost his fascination with her-or so I hoped.

The source of his peculiar obsession had never really been with Alicia, but with his elusive mother. He loved his own idea of her. In Malcolm's mind, Alicia was very much like the mother he remembered-someone forbidden.

Children gravitate to the forbidden, and act on impulse; in many ways, Malcolm was emotionally immature. I knew this; I did not need to react in kind.

I was tempted to abandon caution, but some thread of self preservation asserted good sense into my thinking, once again. I could not endanger my health just to gain the upper hand. There were better ways to accomplish that, so I reached for the bedside table, and found my diaphragm.

"You'll stay." he said, pushing me back onto the pillows, as I started to get to my feet. I wanted so to cry; he knew just how to humiliate me!

He enjoyed watching this ritual of preparation, which I preferred to undertake in privacy. He lay next to me, his hand on my knee, while his fascinated gaze followed my movements, as I lay back on the bed.

He handled my breasts, caressing, kneading, sparking tendrils of heat and sensation with the pressure of his lips that drew, persistently, to stir in me a response. But I was determined to lie as passively still as if I were asleep. I would not beg him, either to go on, or to stop.

"This is what you need, isn't it?" he whispered, his warm hands moving over my body, his words pouring into my ear, into my mind, as close and secret as my own thoughts-falsely soothing. And they were like salt on a wound.

"No." I said icily. "I never-"

"Don't," he said viciously, "lie to me!"

At first I struggled, but these were futile gestures. The awareness that he degraded me only served to increase his pleasure. To my dismay, my body responded to this savagery, and carefully calculated gentleness. The knowledge shamed me. Mine was a response of senses, no more, and I loathed myself for such weakness.

I closed my eyes and at first, I clutched at the quilt, rather than putting my arms around Malcolm. I must not allow myself to be overcome. I would not help him reach his release, although it would mean having this finished, that much sooner. He held me tightly; his movements were quick, deep, and almost painful.

I tried to control my erratic breathing. Let him have what he believed to be his right; let him exercise the only power he had over me now, but I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing its effect.

But of course he knew. He knew exactly what tangle of confused feelings were mine, I suspect, just as he knew my fears well enough to use them to hurt me, that horrible day in his study.

"What would your servants think if they knew-"

I tried not to hear him, to let my imagination create a very different scenario, thinking-not for the first time-how the words and sounds of pain and pleasure are alike. No doubt, Malcolm had thought it, too, though he would not care from which extreme they came.

"I mean to have you whenever and wherever I choose-do you hear me?-In the library. Would you like that, Olivia?"

I made some sound, neither confirming nor denying.

"During the next party we give. That's not so predictable, now is it, Olivia? In my mother's room-again. God, you were so... Do you know how often I think of it? Nothing is forbidden."

"You want to hurt me." I accused. I shouldn't have spoken. He seemed to interpret it as encouragement.

"Nothing is forbidden." he said.

He was saying these things consciously, to upset me. Afterward, did he remember all he said, as he babbled out his fantasies? At least Corinne's name was not mentioned. I was spared that.

Malcolm, rarely silent when in one of these moods, kept up a dialogue; I was never sure precisely what provoked this strangeness. Fortunately, I did not see his violent side often, yet when I did, I knew I was seeing his insecurity. I loathe it, and more than that, I pity it.

Was this what we had come to? Was this what we would put each other through, rather than communicate as a husband and wife ought to? Were we so indifferent, or afraid to talk about what engendered our disharmony, that we would give in to this heated, grasping contact that, though intense, could not wholly satisfy?

"Have you quite finished?" I demanded, though certainly, he had.

"Have you?"

"Get up!" I said harshly, emphasizing each consonant in the words, placing in my voice all the venomous hatred I'd stored up in these last months since finding out about his betrayal with Alicia. I spoke the words slowly, dropping them as heavy weights into the night, words I'd never said before. In the past, I'd only chosen to endure, but now self-loathing mingled with my injured pride. I could not tolerate his presence a second longer than was necessary!

"Don't ever... ever do this again!" I said, trembling. "Just get up and get out of my room now. Just go!"

Still, he did not move. I had the odd feeling that we'd played out this scene before. In his eyes was a maddening look I tried to understand. Anger. Fulfillment. Triumph. Satisfaction.

"Let me go! You're a vile, cruel man."

My words finally frayed his control, and he shoved me, not forcibly, but I was on the edge of the bed, and it was enough to cause me to lose my balance. I fell, striking my arm against the cold radiator.

I stood up quickly, and wrapped my dressing-gown tightly around myself, a blue satin armor against the barrage of whatever his next words might be, uselessly trying to hide what I could not hide. A strange hollow sensation spread through me, as if I was made of thin glass. Malcolm had always seen through me easily-something which time would never change.

"Go then!" he snapped, as if my wanting to leave was an affront. "I'm sure you want to have your bath, as usual. Scrub, rinse, and let it swirl down the drain with the water. But you can't. Tomorrow it will still be-"

"Don't be coarse." I interrupted, but my voice lacked the biting edge I'd hoped for. I could not stop him.

"Try to wash the proof away. You can never do so, Olivia. You can't wash away who you are."

I wanted no reminder that we had a shared identity, for the thought of Alicia was a torment that made any marital obligation intolerable.

I slapped him, hard. He pulled back. Our eyes met, but I did not flinch away, though I was inwardly afraid, shocked that I had done it. Seconds went by, and then incongruently, he smiled.

"I always knew you could do that. Try it again. You might feel better."

I gasped, bewildered. He leaned toward me.

"I know you want to," he said very softly. "because I know that secretly, you crave power."

I pressed my lips together, my fingernails digging into my palms, forcing back my confusion. It was best not to show it.

"As do you." I stated in a clipped way. "All this-this madness you invent is only what you see in the mirror. You are speaking of yourself, Malcolm."

"Then we are well matched, are we not?"

"I-I don't understand you." I said, repulsion choking my voice.

"Yes, you do." he said quietly, as if we were conspirators who shared a secret. "I've been waiting for you to realize it." he added.

Before this, hints of Malcolm's twisted nature were evident. I remember how Malcolm looked, on that first night of Alicia's confinement, after carrying her suitcases up to the north wing, his humiliation, the way he had waited on my next command, that element in his manner which I couldn't read. I had blithely dismissed him as I would dismiss any servant. There had been a measure of satisfaction in seeing Malcolm humbled, knowing that I humiliated him at least as much then as he had done to me.

Was this to be the reprisal for the way I'd handled that, and the scene in his study? Was this the price I must pay for trying to hold on to the remnants of my dignity? I had no dignity that night, as the summer rain tapped out a soothing monotony on the windowpane, a soft sound at variance with the upheaval within.

Rising, he moved past me, retrieved his robe from the back of the velvet chair, and walked to the door. When he twisted the glass door-knob, a nerve-rattling squeak echoed down the hallway. He stepped into the hall and turned to look back.

"An errant husband should be punished, Olivia. Consider that. Anger and desire are very closely linked. You should give some thought to that as well.  
Good night." And he was gone.

I just stood motionless next to my bed, bereft, though I couldn't have said why. I shivered, though I wasn't cold. I felt soiled. I thought I would be sick,  
but the feeling passed. The sound of his footsteps died away as I crossed quickly to the bathroom doorway, feeling a vague unease about the darkness in corners and the murky places beyond my line of sight and the circumscribed paths of thought. I was only beginning now to see what hid in that darkness-in my darkness.

Stepping out of the bath, I examined myself in the mirror carefully. Was tonight an aberration? Was Malcolm right?-did I want power, and did I already have it? Yes, I must, or he would have stayed away. Malcolm was drawn to power; he wanted to capture it for himself.

I reached for the tube of Arnica Gel, ascertaining that, once again, my feelings were significantly more bruised than my person. Pulling on a fresh nightgown, I went quietly back to my room and forced my eyes closed and my mind onto other thoughts. It had been a very long day. With all three children to look after, and with extra responsibilities-now that we had so few servants, I was overcome with exhaustion.

I did not dwell on what had just happened. I only wished to forget it as quickly as possible. It was just the latest of the spirit-numbing events that had transpired to test me.

The country was soon to be in transition, as my family was in transition, dodging scandals that might eventually catch up with us, despite careful planning. How could we be sure Alicia wouldn't choose to keep her baby once she saw it? Malcolm would be angry, but I wouldn't mind if Alicia foiled his plans, for he was, as always, self-centered. Not for an instant was he considering her, in any of this. She was an instrument to be used toward his own purpose. It did not matter to him what harm might come to her, or what harm he was doing to me. I should be long past feeling betrayed, but I was not, and hours elapsed before I could quiet my troubled mind enough to sleep again.

"Breakfast, Alicia," I said, entering her room a week later.

"Did you bring orange juice, again?"

She uncovered the dishes and frowned at what I'd brought.

"That is the juice you requested."

"That was yesterday. I am so tired of having the same breakfast every morning. I'd like to have one cinnamon bun." Her querulousness annoyed me. "Just one!"

"Christopher ate the last one this morning." I said, thinking it would put a stop to her complaints.

"What about one of those wonderful scones? I can smell them all the way up here, when they've just come out of the oven."

"I'll see about it."

"Garland used to take me to the loveliest little cafe,"

"That's nice." I said, uninterested.

Alicia hadn't known what she was getting into when she came into our home, but I could not feel sorry for her. I'd even felt some odd sense of pride of my own that, no matter what Malcolm was like, I was married to the younger, more handsome man. Garland, perfect as he'd seemed, had been middle-aged, and I could not see why Alicia had been attracted to him. Why, Alicia's own father must have been younger than Garland! I thought of that every time she began on one of her nostalgic stories.

"Don't you want to hear about the cafe, Olivia?"

"Why would you imagine I am interested in hearing details of a lunch you had five years ago?"

"I'll bet you could even make some of those delicious little cakes, Olivia."

"Eat your breakfast, Alicia, before it grows cold."

"Why can't I have a cup of coffee?"

"I fear it would make you even more high strung than you already are. It's a pity you don't enjoy reading," I said. "A novel might occupy your mind and help to pass the time. I just finished one which was rather good. If you'd like, I will bring it up to you."

She didn't answer.

"Alicia?"

"You're reading novels?"

"It isn't a crime."

"What about Christopher?"

"What about him? He isn't being neglected, if that is what you're implying." I replied irritably. "Now, I can't stand here all day explaining myself to you. I must speak to Lucas about taking us into town. Mal needs a haircut before school starts."

"Couldn't I just go outside while you are out?" she asked, hopeful and imploring.

"Absolutely not. We've already been over this."

"But Olivia, it's so hot up here."

"You could run a cool bath." I suggested, eyeing her uncombed, unwashed hair with distaste.

"And then what? Oh, Olivia! It gets so lonely up here. I think I'll go mad."

"Nonsense. Loneliness is all in your mind."

"That is easy for you to say. You never get lonely."

She'd said this before, and I couldn't imagine why she thought so.

"It seems to me that that is largely a choice one makes." I said.

"Choice," she mused. "I suppose you don't have much choice."

She looked at me with pity, I thought-pity for me, who had to live with an ogre of a husband. She wasn't even mean-spirited enough to be smug. No, Alicia would never be smug, she was too kind-hearted and young for that-young, and lacking understanding. I did not want her pity!

And how young I was then, also. Young in years, perhaps, but in many ways older than my years indicated. It had always been so, even when I was a child of ten. Unlike Alicia, I believed I had plenty of choices, and I had made mine. Her reasons for staying here and mine weren't the same. It wasn't fear of being left penniless that kept me at Foxworth Hall. To my way of thinking, such reasons as Alicia's were weak ones, and it was because I was not weak that I stayed.

Alicia started to say something else, but I cut her off.

"I wouldn't have gotten myself into such a bad spot. But if I had, I'd endure it without complaint." I said, doubting the truth in that, but wanting to put a stop to this talk. Then I saw something on the top of the highboy that drew me up short, startled.

"What is this doing here?" I asked in a thin, constricted voice. I picked up the silver framed photograph, brandishing it in her direction.

"I found it in the attic and brought it down. I thought she'd keep me company."

"But this... this is Garland's first wife. This is-"

"I know who she is." she said sweetly.

Alicia was mad; she must be! She was also very puzzling; I would never understand her, I thought. How could she wish to see this picture? How could she have any interest in this woman?

"If she had stayed with Garland, I wouldn't be here." said Alicia, as if reading my thoughts.

"In more ways than one." I said, knowing she wasn't thinking of Malcolm, and Corinne's effect on him, as I was.

"Do you think she'll tell me all of her secrets, Olivia? If I listen very closely, she might tell me a story about Garland."

"I have to go." I said. I couldn't get out of that room fast enough! "I have to check on the boys."

From the rotunda, even before I crossed to the south-wing corridor, I could already hear them, Mal in particular.

"Give it to me, stupid."

"You broke it!" came Joel's congested reply.

"It was an accident!" shouted Mal. "Give it to me before Mom-"

"Mal? What's the trouble here?" I said, stopping in the doorway.

All three boys looked up at me, but only Christopher looked glad to see me. He started to run to me, but stopped, seeing Mal's hostile scowl.

Last week, Mal tried to push Christopher off my lap. "She's not your mama!" he reminded Christopher, cruelly. I was dismayed at this rivalry which had recently developed, and I dreaded another such scene today. But then Mal shrugged and turned away, kicking at Christopher's blocks.

Joel held the pieces of a toy he'd been given as a recent birthday present. I took it from him, and examined it.

"It's all right. We can probably fix this." I said. "What happened?"

"Christopher did it." Mal muttered in disgust.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to."

"So? It's still broken." said Mal.

Christopher's baffled expression crumpled, and he began to cry, asking again for his mother. How could I punish a child who was so bereft?

Malcolm thought I neglected our boys, while paying extra attention to Christopher. It was not Malcolm's concern, and I disliked being lectured, but perhaps there was some truth in what he said. I felt sorry for this three-year-old who had recently lost his father, and must now be motherless for months, but I did not want my own children-and it was Mal who typically voiced complaints-to feel left out, either. I was beginning to realize that it wasn't just Alicia my boys missed.

"When is Alicia coming back?" demanded a sullen Mal. I was growing tired of his questions. Joel and Christopher whined, but didn't have enough understanding to ask for answers as directly. Alicia was too often the topic of conversation among them, and too often she was in my thoughts when I should not need to think of her.

"She is not coming back any time soon." I snapped. "Forget about her, and stop asking."

I felt immediate guilt as his eyes widened in surprise and hurt at my sharp tone.

"Darling, I'm sorry." I said, embracing him. "I know you miss her, but it will get easier." He continued to pout.

"Come downstairs and have a snack, then you can go outside and play until lunch."

They usually didn't go out until after lunch, when Christopher had his nap.

"Can I have chocolate milk, Mommy?" asked Joel, as I tied his shoes.

"Certainly."

"I get to be in charge! Don't I get to be in charge outside?" asked Mal, excitedly.

"I don't see why not." I said. "Put those cars away first. No, on the shelf. Mal, do you hear me? Don't just shove them under the bed."

"How long till Father comes home?" inquired Mal.

"A long time from now. Why do you ask?"

"He said we could go swimming today."

I made a mental note to call and remind Malcolm, who had a way of forgetting his promises.

"Well," I said, opening the curtain, "it doesn't look like rain. I think there's a fairly good chance that your father will take you for a swim after dinner."

"Do I gotta go too?" asked Joel.

"Don't you want to swim?"

"No, 'cause he got sick last time. That's because he's a sissy." interjected Mal, in a matter-of-fact way.

"Mal! You will apologize to your brother."

He set his face in an expression of stony defiance I knew too well.

"Father says-"

"I don't care what he says. I don't want to hear that kind of talk from you." I warned.

"Joel doesn't want to go anyway." Mal said stubbornly. It wasn't the point, but I didn't want to spoil the afternoon over another of Malcolm's thoughtless remarks.

"No one will force you to go swimming," I told Joel. "but maybe you'll change your mind by tonight."

They raced off ahead of me down the stairs, already squabbling over some trivial detail of play.

How much easier it was for me-if not for the boys-now that Alicia was out of the way. It is my belief that children settle their differences faster without adult intervention, a concept which Alicia could not grasp. She was constantly altering Christopher's schedule, making too many unplanned excursions into town, and giving the children more treats than I approved of, so that Joel often wouldn't finish his meals. In her own infuriatingly passive way and by her actions, she criticized the rules I set for my boys, no doubt believing them too strict. It was only her good luck to have a compliant child who didn't require as much discipline or supervision.

I wondered what she would make of this situation. But what did it matter? Because of that same blase outlook, she was absent from this family. Why did I feel occasional bouts of guilt? I had not done anything wrong; I was not the sinner.

I stepped out onto the terrace to be sure that the boys had not left the side yard, and to speak to the assistant gardener about planting azaleas. Olsen's new assistant was one of the few people on our staff of servants who wasn't afraid to speak his mind, and he made it plain that he disapproved of the changes I wanted to make, as if these gardens were his own property.

"I didn't order these. Why are they here?"

"Mrs. Foxworth, with all due respect-" He launched into a lengthy explanation, the tone in his voice anything but respectful.

"I'm certain Olsen did not instruct you to plant them there. I want them removed at once. Today."

"They complete the scheme of-"

"Remove them today." I insisted. "I am sure I told you that I'd like azaleas here."

I had little patience for this sort of dispute. It seemed that no one could agree with me; my life was one continuous struggle.

Ginger, one of the new maids, interrupted to say that there was a telephone call from Malcolm.

"Olivia," said Malcolm, sounding strangely sombre. It was unlike him to call during the middle of the day. "Harding's gone."

"Gone? The president-"

"He died last night."

I pressed the telephone receiver closer to my ear, as if hearing better would clarify what he'd said. I slumped back on the settee and shut my eyes, for a moment. The news didn't come as a great shock, however. For many months, it had been evident that both the president and his wife were in ill health, even if reports claimed otherwise.

There was a silence. Neither of us knew what to say. The sound of the boys' laughter drifted in from the open window. The impertinent gardener muttered to himself. Over the line I heard the shuffle of papers, and in the distance, the clacking of typewriters. The day wore on.

"I just heard. Coolidge has already been sworn in."

"So soon?"

"Late last night, the paper says."

"I haven't yet seen the paper." I said, unnecessarily.

"If you're still coming into town today, Olivia-"

"I am."

"Come in to the bank. There are some papers that require your signature."

"Very well. But be sure you are there this time. I'll have the children, and I can't wait around for you."

"Is it tonight that we are expected for dinner at the Pattersons'? I just saw Sam, and he didn't mention it."

"That's tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"At seven o'clock." I said.

"I can't be there. You'll have to go alone."

"Malcolm, I can't. The invitation was for us both."

I heard other voices through the line.

"We'll talk about this tonight, Olivia. Matthew Allen has just come in."

"Yes," I said curtly, "we shall have to talk about this. This will be the third time I've had to call and cancel at the last hour. Have you any idea how awkward-"

"I have a conference in less than five minutes, Olivia."

"All right." I sighed. "I'll see you at two."

"Two." he agreed, and disconnected.

Malcolm's bank was a grand extravagance of a building at the corner of Water Street and Third. Each time I went into it, I was reminded of my father. I loved the elegant decor of the lobby, with its pinkish marble floor. I liked the interior, cool and hushed; it smelled of paper and ink and affluence.  
Mal, too, liked this bank. He looked forward to visits, when he walked about with a proprietary air, as if he owned the place. Malcolm scarcely noticed him, though. The younger children were well-behaved and happy to be given one butterscotch candy apiece from Malcolm's secretary on our way out. Once outside,  
Mal-who had declined to accept candy-demanded to be taken to the ice-cream parlor.

"Not today. We have too much to do. Now, come along."

I stopped on the steps in front of the bank. Someone called to me.

"Millicent." I smiled, but heard the chilly note in my voice.

"Olivia," Millicent exclaimed with a bright smile. "why didn't you tell me?"

For an instant, I did not know what she meant, but then I did. People had been smiling at me all morning. My pregnancy was readily visible now, and all at once I recalled what it had been like the last two times, the attention one receives from women whom might be complete strangers. It made me feel so ill at ease to be asked personal questions in that conspiratorial manner, certain they had a right to the answers, simply because they themselves had experienced the same condition.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, well-" I shrugged. I had to keep her at a safe distance. I had to prevent her from becoming suspicious.

"Are you very busy today?" she asked. She had, on other occasions, kept the boys for an hour or two while I ran errands.

"Not especially so."

Mal gave a peevish snort.

"We have a lot to do today." he said, giving me an irritable look.

"Stop being such a fuss-budget, and you might just get some ice-cream." I told him quietly.

"When?"

"Oh, later, perhaps."

We walked to Millicent's house, the six of us. Caroline was there, trailing along, listening to Mal's complaints as he continued to glower at me.

"We have ice-cream at my house. Grandma made some. It's peach." I heard her say.

"I hate peach."

"Mal," I said sternly. "mind your manners."

Millicent took no notice of this. She sent the children out back to play, chased by Caroline's new labrador puppy. Millicent watched them through the window for a few minutes.

"He's gotten so tall." she commented.

"Mal?"

She nodded.

"He's grown a lot this summer. Caroline, too, I see." I said.

"Now," she said, once the four of them were safely out of earshot, "come, sit down and tell me how you are."

"Very tired. I'm not sleeping well, lately." I admitted.

"This August heat doesn't help, either." said Millicent's mother, bringing out a full pitcher of tea, flavored with sprigs of mint. I agreed, lethargically, before she disappeared back into the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of the tea. It was cold, refreshing and unsweetened.

"Looks like you're about halfway through. How are you feeling? Your back must be aching!"

Yes, my back ached, but not for the reason Millicent believed. I ached because today I suffered from the most obvious proof a woman can have that she is not with child. I was living a lie, and already I was tired of lies. I was tired, knowing that this was only the beginning; I would be living with this lie for the rest of my life.

"I'm fine. You really mustn't fuss over me. I have been through this twice before, you know."

"Is Malcolm pleased?"

"He hopes it's a girl this time." I said, finding it easier to evade the question. I realized that I didn't really know what Malcolm's feelings were.

"I'm glad for you, Olivia." she gushed on. I tried to smile, but it was a weak smile, and it didn't fool her.

"Oh dear," Her voice dropped, and her expression grew serious, concerned. "You aren't happy about this baby."

"It was... unexpected." I said, my eyes filling with tears. Her genuine sympathy made me wish I could tell her the whole story, but I didn't dare. I hated that I had to resort to these half truths, but there was some small measure of comfort in telling part of it. I longed for the release tears would bring,  
and I had so much to cry over, but I would not cry now. I could not cry at home either; I must maintain my stoicism.

"Oh, Olivia." her tone was full of empathy. She became very serious. "But you are taking care of yourself, aren't you?"

"Of course."

"I had the oddest cravings when I was pregnant."

"I haven't had any this time, so far." I said. "With Joel, I felt too sick to want food much of the time. I had to force myself to eat. I don't know how we survived it, honestly. It's a miracle he was born as healthy as he was."

She nodded, as if that explained my present misgivings.

"With Mal, I wanted to eat apple pie with every meal," I said, smiling a little at the memory.

"That's not so bad." said Millicent.

"Apple pie with cayenne pepper?"

She laughed, and her laugh was infectious.

"Mrs. Wilson threatened to resign because of all the extra work of baking those pies."

"Not really, Olivia?"

"No, but I kept expecting her to. Actually, they all were very solicitous while I was carrying the boys, and Mary Stuart in particular was a great help to me when they were babies."

"Doesn't she have six of her own?"

"That's right."

"Goodness! But I can't imagine having that many!"

"Malcolm wants about five, I think." I said, and laughed at her horrified expression. "but it won't happen."

"You've heard the news about the president, I suppose?" I said, ready to change the subject.

"Yes." she said, and called her mother in from the next room. She had undoubtedly overheard much of our conversation. "I think Mother has a copy of today's Progress."

The slim, gray-haired woman emerged from the kitchen, handing me the newspaper. I studied the picture of Mrs. Harding, and Millicent's mother studied me.  
I didn't notice her odd stare, so absorbed was I in the article.

"Oh, Mother, this is Olivia Foxworth. I've told you about her."

"Foxworth." the older woman repeated. "Those your boys outside?"

"Yes. The older two are mine."

"Mal and Joel." she said, her back to us as she looked out the window at the children. "I met them before, in April."

"Oh?"

"It was the day I kept them for you, Olivia, when I took Carrie and the boys to Court Days. Mother and Isabel went with us." Millicent said, a slight apologetic tone in her voice.

Of course. It had been around the time of Garland's funeral. I looked down at the newspaper again, and hoping to avoid talking about that, pointed out a detail from the article.

"That poor woman." said Millicent.

"She looks like she's holding up well." I observed. Millicent's mother agreed.

"Still," Millicent said, considering. "how long were they married?"

I shrugged.

"You're thinking that I should know what that's like, that it must get lonely. I suppose it must be. I've forgotten."

"Forgotten, Millicent?" I was puzzled.

"Frank and I were only together for a year before he was sent to France, you know. I got only one letter from him before he was killed."

"You rarely talk about him." I poured another glass of tea. "His job took him away most of the time, even before the war, didn't it?"

She nodded.

"I can remember so little, and Carrie asks more questions, the older she gets."

"Millicent," I asked, "are you ever lonely? You have Caroline, but-"

"Not anymore. I used to be, the first year, without Frank. Not now. I like things as they are. I won't marry again."

I nodded, understanding. She had been raised without a father. A man wasn't a necessary accessory to her life.

"What about you, Olivia?"

"Marry again? After Malcolm, whom could I marry?"

"Good heavens!"

We laughed. She had a way of making me feel at ease, and though our words were serious, the whole tone of this conversation had been light. She had a gift for drawing one out, without seeming to intrude upon one's private business.

"No, I meant... are you lonely?"

"How could I be, with a house full of servants and children?"

"And Malcolm." she said.

I said nothing.

"Men are not very good companions. Their interests are so different." commented Millicent's mother.

"Alicia once made the assumption-right out of the blue-that I was never lonely." I said.

"How curious."

"I don't know why she would think so." I said.

"She lived with you," said Millicent, "so she must have had some idea."

"No," I replied with a wry smile, "she didn't really live with us. She lived in her own world."

"Still does, no doubt." said Millicent. "It was only Garland for her, poor thing. But it wasn't healthy-not a healthy marriage, was it? Rather unbalanced,  
I thought."

"Oh. I never considered... I suppose you would see it that way."

"I do. And I think it's truly heartless of her to go off and leave that child alone, as she has done."

She glanced at me, and at her mother. There was a pause when it seemed no one would answer, but an answer-an opinion-was expected. I was saved from having to reply by a knock at the front door.

Amid the ensuing mayhem that followed the arrival of Isabel Bertram, as well as two of Caroline's little friends, I gathered the boys and told Millicent I must leave.

Mal's ill-humor was restored by our early departure, and because he hadn't gotten a dish of the promised ice-cream. Millicent's mother materialized from the kitchen, proffering a covered dish.

"Don't be so contrary," she told Mal, pinching his shoulder blade. "You can take this fudge home, if you promise not to give your ma trouble. I reckon she's got enough of that already."

Mal, instantly contrite, thanked her, and we left.


	7. Diversions

Chapter 14 insert-A

(page 260)

DIVERSIONS

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." - Anna Karenina

The spring of 1924 was full of change, and not only because of the new baby. The tension in our house was relieved, somewhat, by the diversion brought by visitors we entertained, in early May.

"An anniversary party?" My voice rose an octave, in consternation. I halted the motion of the porch swing.

"You won't have to make the arrangements."

"You can't be serious!"

Malcolm was aware that lavish parties caused me anxiety. Still, each year we gave one, at Christmas and at our anniversary, because, as he put it, May is a good time for a party, before everyone goes away for the summer. The guests consisted, mainly, of acquaintances, and his few droll friends. Occasionally I could relax enough to enjoy myself, but the thought of it, now, only infuriated me.

The seventh of May would mark the eighth year of our marriage, and they had been very long years. I had nothing to commemorate, and I did not want to contemplate the future.

"Precisely WHAT will we be celebrating, Malcolm?"

"Olivia, must you-"

"Why go through with such a pretense... such a farce?"

As was typical when I was distressed, I was unable to sit still. I left the swing, making my way around the edge of the portico, watering tin in hand, saturating the hanging plants and window boxes, glad to have something to occupy my hands-some movement to lessen tension.

"Is this some sort of concession meant to placate me, to compensate for the unspeakably disgusting things you have done, in the last year?" My acerbic tone made him wince.

"Must you constantly bring that up? Your unwillingness to forgive is growing tedious, Olivia. Why can't you let it go?"

I knew Malcolm was not above saying that for the sole purpose of getting under my skin, but I was outraged at such audacious disregard for my feelings.

"Let it go?" I angrily tossed the watering tin over the porch railing into the shrubbery below, and turned sharply to face him. "Now that you have what you wanted, you expect me to quietly accept, and forget what it cost me? I'm afraid I can't be so easily mollified. And you never asked me to forgive you, Malcolm. It is yet another instance in which you expect a great deal from a relationship you've shamefully neglected, and probably never cared about, to begin with."

"You're insane with your ideas! I suppose next you'll be telling me I've neglected my sons, as well. Go on. You haven't delivered that particular diatribe yet, this week."

He glared at me, suppressed anger in his voice and in his rigid posture. I didn't respond.

"I'm tired of being harassed and criticized, Olivia. Why is it you can only see the adverse in every situation, in everything I do and say?"

So, what I said did have an affect on him, after all. I was inwardly pleased to know this. But it didn't impel me to be careful of his sensitivities as I had once, for when had he ever cared about mine?

"Because you make it so easy for me to find fault with you, Malcolm, that I've given up on anything else."

A long silence ensued. Finally he stood up and went toward the front door.

"We can talk about this when you aren't being so contentious. But keep in mind as you are condemning me, that you are not above reproach, yourself."

"What do you mean by that?"

He ignored me and entered the house, shutting the door with such force that the windows rattled. Presently, perhaps remembering something he'd forgotten to add, he leaned through a window, still scowling.

"What did you mean by that? I've done nothing." I said.

"Exactly, Olivia. The neglect goes both ways."

"I don't care anymore, Malcolm. You haven't given me a reason to, only many reasons not to care."

I wondered if he had ever heard or comprehended anything I said, on this subject. I wondered why I had never said it, before now. The words that escaped me were true enough, but at that moment I felt indifferent, and I suppose Malcolm sensed that.

All the heat of anger vanished, and I knew it was pointless to pursue what should have been sorted out, long before this afternoon. Perhaps the distance between us couldn't be bridged with words, or maybe not at all, and perhaps Malcolm wanted it this way, despite anything he said to the contrary.

All was still for a few seconds before he spoke again, as if just remembering something.

"Oh, I should tell you that Mr. Treadley called me today about Mal. It seems that he's causing some sort of trouble, again. They're giving him an early dismissal. I'm driving down tomorrow morning, to pick him up from that school. Well? Don't you have anything to say?"

He waited, his irritation returning when I didn't reply.

"You accuse me of neglecting the boys, yet it is you who insist they attend a boarding school."

I strove to maintain an untroubled expression. We had been through this several times previously, and I doubted he had anything new to add.

"You're only opposed to the school because it was my idea, and because now you cannot oversee every aspect of Mal's education."

Malcolm shook his head, denying my pronouncement.

"This is best for him." I said.

"Best!" he exploded. "Olivia, you are being unreasonable. You always went to local private schools; you have no idea what it is like to be sent away from home. It is obvious that Mal wants to be here. This was a mistake, I tell you, a mistake!"

"Mal will adjust."

"You're impossible to reason with!"

"You already said that, Malcolm." I replied, calmly.

His scowl deepened, but he dropped the subject.

"There will be someone at the party I'd like you to meet, a cousin of mine. He and his family will be staying here for several days, so have the servants prepare rooms." he said in a more level tone, as if the past ten minutes of our conversation hadn't happened.

"I haven't agreed to a party." I said dully.

I hated the way he did not ask, only informed me after the decision had been made, that we would be having houseguests. This cousin must be someone important, because Malcolm disliked having people stay at Foxworth Hall, yet he was making an exception, this time.

"All right," I sighed. assenting. "I'll see to it."

He nodded and started to turn away.

"If you're going past the kitchen, tell Mrs. McGarity that I would like dinner served an hour early, tonight." I said, knowing how Malcolm hated to be sent on paltry errands.

He closed the window before I could say another word, and walked away, preoccupied with plans and preparations.

Soon after, I made the acquaintance of Everett Hudson. He was the son of Garland's younger sister, Adelaide, who lived in Richmond. I had met some of the members of that branch of the family when they came to Charlottesville for Garland's funeral, the previous year.

Everett and Malcolm had lost touch in recent years, but as children, they had been sent to the same boarding schools. In his boyhood, Malcolm had spent significant time with the Hudson family, at their homes in Virginia and in England. Malcolm spoke of his cousin Everett, and about his uncle, with the most familial warmth and respect I'd ever heard him express. Malcolm claimed this uncle had been more of a father to him than Garland had been.

Malcolm often mentioned Everett's name to me over the years, and I'd wondered why he never invited him to Foxworth Hall. But after I met the man, I understood.

In appearance, Everett couldn't have been more different, but in temperament, he and Malcolm were very much alike-so much alike that they should have been twins. When it came to business endeavors and building his fortune, Everett was just as single-minded and dedicated as Malcolm, in running his own businesses, so Everett probably had not made the time to visit us.

It came up in conversation, quite by chance, that Malcolm had, in fact, invited the Hudsons to our wedding, and that they had been unable to travel at the time, due to Adelaide's illness. Discovering this, I felt chagrined, for I'd supposed that Malcolm hadn't cared enough to invite his family. But I had been wrong, and if I had misjudged that, what else had my insecurities made me perceive, incorrectly? It unsettled me, but I was also slightly relieved, as well. If Malcolm had been truthful about that, then it followed he had been honest about other things-the few truly happy moments I could call my own.

Everett and his wife, Frances, and their children, Victoria and Megan-who were nearly the same ages as Mal and Joel-came to visit for a week, that first spring, after Corinne's birth. Foxworth Hall was at its best then, the weather mild, its beauty on display, the rosebud trees in glorious bloom.

Had it not been for Alicia, we would have invited the Hudsons to the Hall the previous summer. Even though her mark was indelibly left on our family, her departure from it was a great relief. My home and my family were my own once more, and no longer would I, or anyone else, compare me, with my "Yankee" ways and voice-about which Garland used to tease me-with Alicia's soft-spoken, mild-mannered presence. The Hudsons had not known her, and the lack of comment about Alicia made it easier to try and leave that unfortunate time behind.

The children adjusted to each other rather well, I thought. Mal teased and tormented Victoria and Joel ceaselessly, but it was soon apparent that Victoria could defend herself, and was a worthy opponent in many of Mal's games. She was my favorite of the Hudsons' girls. Victoria was a serious child, possessing common sense and intelligence. Yet she seldom smiled, and it disturbed me that a child so young should be so solemn. For some reason I couldn't fathom, she took Joel under her wing, and they rapidly took to each other.

Megan tagged after Mal, who took less notice of her with each subsequent visit the Hudsons made to Foxworth Hall. I could tell already that Megan was the kind of little girl Corinne would be-one who demanded and expected to be noticed and spoiled. She was the center of her father's attention, just as Corinne was, in our family.

Frances, however, seemed more taken with my boys, perhaps because she had no sons. Aside from the initial obligatory comment on Corinne's looks, she paid scant attention to the baby, and this, more than anything else, was why I warmed to her so quickly.

It was not so with her husband. Everett was a stoic man; his manner was brusque, and I disliked him. He reminded me of Malcolm in many ways, from his open adoration of his prettier daughter, Megan, to his apparent good business acumen, (which Malcolm raved about) to his aloof, casual treatment of his wife.

In Frances, I recognized a kindred spirit and friend, immediately. While having proper, genteel southern social graces and manners, she possessed a will of iron and a dry sense of humor to rival mine, which came as a surprise. Her life was very much like my own, and so, at times, I was able to confide to Frances matters I could never-in spite of my fondness and respect-share with Millicent, for Millicent remained unmarried, and was contented with such a life.

Frances and I corresponded regularly, but the best times were when we visited their home, or they visited us. These visits usually had to coincide with some business that needed tending by Malcolm or Everett.

Malcolm enjoyed these visits; the rigid lines of strain in his face relaxed a bit, during the weeks our families spent together, and he had the company of a like mind. The men would sit for hours on the east patio, or in the trophy room conversing about their work and their respective hunting expeditions, with Everett drinking copious amounts of whiskey, depleting our supply, for even that could be obtained in these times of Prohibition, for the right price.

Another benefit for me of these associations was that Malcolm's attitude toward my involvement with Corinne's care relaxed. If I sent the nurse away for an afternoon, he didn't object, often because he didn't notice.

Their visits had a subtle effect on the relationship between Malcolm and myself, and provided opportunities for us to see each other in different ways than we had before. For me, it was always through the eyes of others that I learned new things about Malcolm-the occasional good that I was too hardened by disillusionment to appreciate, any other time.

"I don't see why the disorganized, bungling lot of them don't have the-"

"But what else would you expect from a party that can't choose only one candidate to represent it?" Everett was saying, as I re-entered the dining room one evening.

"Mal, stop playing and eat your zucchini." I admonished, quietly. He made a sour face, which elicited a stern look from Malcolm.

"I don't like it." complained Mal.

"Your mother didn't ask whether you liked it, or not." said Malcolm.

"The food at my school was better than this." mumbled Mal, who didn't seem to like anything prepared by our new cook. Further complaints were silenced by the severe, warning look Malcolm had perfected, and Mal continued to eat slowly, glaring resentfully at his father whenever he thought Malcolm wouldn't notice.

"What are they talking about?" I asked Frances, as I took my place at the table.

"The democrats, whom you defend so vehemently, of course." answered Malcolm, with a sneer. "I was just telling Everett that I read today that they're going to broadcast the national convention on the radio."

"Oh?"

My interest was piqued. We didn't yet own a radio set, but one heard about the potential of the new technological wonder so often now that credence had to be given to the idea that its influence would alter life as we knew it, and that seemed to be happening, rapidly. Radio, then, would not merely be a source of entertainment. It wasn't just a modern trend that would eventually fade into obscurity.

"A preposterous notion, if you ask me. It will prove to be a waste of funds and time, mark my words." put in Everett.

"I should think radio could be an asset to the campaign." I said. "Why, just think, you won't have to spend election day outside the telegraph office, waiting for the results."

"That has always been one of the highlights of an election year. I've met and made many useful contacts, that way."

"Oh, it's not as though you'll be able to hear it! We don't get any clear signals, here. Why talk about something that doesn't matter? Everett won't talk about anything but politics and his work." complained Frances.

Malcolm and I exchanged a look of amazement.

I was shocked by Frances's flippancy, and openly displayed disrespect. After a pause, I finished my meal, thoughtfully, and the conversation grew more convivial, though I remained quiet throughout. Frances kept up a lively, though meandering dialogue.

Later I took her aside, intent on speaking my mind, though I conceded that it was none of my business.

"Frances, how can you so blatantly disregard Everett's business interests? How can you talk of his career as if it is nothing more than an optional pastime?"

Surely, she ought to feel some reverence, and respect the effort which allowed her to live comfortably, and without care.

"That sounds so much like something my mother says." she laughed. "Oh, Olivia, I don't care about that."

"Everett might care." I hinted.

She sighed, a wistful expression coming into her eyes. For an instant, her manner and parlance reminded me of Alicia.

"I'm not sure." she said, but I wasn't convinced. "As long as I remember I'm a Hudson, I am permitted to do as I wish. Whatever he thinks I need or want, he buys, but beyond that, he doesn't consider my feelings."

A brief look of complete understanding passed between us.

"All I want from him is his attention, or rather, I did. Now, I've grown used to his absences, even his absences when he is home with me."

That was a sentiment to which I could relate, though it seemed apparent to me-much to my surprise-that Malcolm and I had more in common to talk about than had she and Everett. Their evenings must be very silent, indeed!

"But I've found other ways to fill the emptiness." she continued.

"What do you mean?" I asked, truly not knowing what she was getting at.

She gazed about to be sure no one was near enough to hear, and lowered her voice.

"Another man." she confided.

My face went scarlet with embarrassment and shock. That was something I did not understand. I was unaccustomed as yet to such open, direct talk as this.

"Everett is none the wiser. He wouldn't even consider it as possible, that is how little he thinks of me, Olivia." her bitterness was unmistakable. She leaned forward to peer at me more closely as I shifted uncomfortably in my iron garden chair.

"And you're happy with this arrangement? Are you proud of this?"

"No, I'm not happy!" she insisted. Tears shimmered in her eyes, brought on by the disapproving reaction she hadn't expected from me. "I'm not proud either,  
but it helps me to cope. I've made mistakes, serious ones. It may not matter soon, anyway. We've been talking about living apart, and," she dropped her voice, "divorce. So you see, I am not happy, but we all find solace in our own way, don't we?"

I wanted to reach out, to offer some form of comfort, but her lack of shame, her indifference to Everett's feelings troubled me, caused something unsympathetic in my nature to surface.

"Perhaps you should try it, Olivia-finding another man, I mean. Oh, I don't mean to pry, but I can see that Malcolm... well, he's very much like Everett, I think, and that means he can be so... cold, so indifferent."

"That's absolutely absurd, unconscionable! I wouldn't dream of it!" I exclaimed, outraged at the presumptuous suggestion.

"I didn't mean to offend you. But Olivia, if your needs aren't being met-"

"Needs? What has another man to do with my marriage, and my needs relating to that marriage? Another man would not solve the problems, Frances. And at any rate, my needs are not the only ones to be considered, just as yours are not, in your case. If it is only... only sexual relations you're talking about, I can live with what I have, even if it's... not perfect."

"But why should you? If you can have nothing else, then why not-"

"Besides, Frances, you don't understand," I looked down at my embroidery frame, pausing to focus on my work for a few seconds, unsure if I wanted to say more. "Malcolm's mother-her name was Corinne-left her husband and child for another man, presumably. It was a selfish action, and it caused tremendous pain and had long-lasting affects on... on everyone. If she hadn't done it-"

I stopped, suddenly flustered, a catch in my voice. After a moment I shrugged, dismissing what I'd been about to say.

Frances probably wondered what I'd meant, since I hadn't known my mother-in-law. It must have seemed like an overly dramatic statement to make. I knew that when I said Corinne's name, my eyes had gone icy. All warmth had evaporated, in an instant.

I thought about the woman who was the source for much of the unhappiness in this family. I had always wondered about her. What would I have said to Malcolm's mother, if we had ever met? Oh, how I despised her! Her disappearance had had such a far-reaching impact, on us. Had she ever considered what the repercussions might be? Had she cared at all?

I'd always thought of Corinne as very selfish. Nothing could make me leave my children; how could a mother do such a thing? But it occurred to me now that perhaps she had been very unhappy here, so unhappy that she could no longer keep up the facade of her life at Foxworth. Perhaps she hadn't left so much for the one she'd supposedly run away with, as for herself. Perhaps the story everyone believed about Corinne wasn't even close to the truth.

I had only Malcolm's version of events, and what, after all, could a five-year-old child really have understood about his mother's disappearance? Very little, I believed, now that I had my own young children, and knew their limited comprehension of adult matters.

Yet I wondered about Corinne's side of the story. Perhaps it was only that she had the courage to do what I had not done: leave the clutches of Foxworth Hall and find the happiness it could never bring to those who remained-the happiness she thought she deserved.

"Olivia?" Frances asked softly, placing a tentative hand on my sleeve.

For an instant I was close to telling her everything, but just then one of the children ran up to us with a question, distracting us from the conversation for a few moments. When we returned to it, the fragile moment had been lost, and I felt relieved, frightened and disappointed. Nonetheless, I pursued the point I'd been making.

"I suppose it's becoming more commonplace to consider...divorce,"-I was uneasy with the term, for I'd never known anyone who'd chosen that unfortunate state-"but I would never leave my husband. That would be admitting failure."

"But there must be certain circumstances-" she began.

"No." I said flatly, quickly, unwilling even to consider the idea. "I doubt many would agree with me."

"You sound as if you aren't concerned about that."

"I'm not, particularly. Why should I be? I've made a lot of decisions in my life that most people wouldn't approve, and I'll probably make more before it's all over, I daresay."

"All right. But you must have opinions about my situation," she persisted.

"Opinions? Yes, I have opinions, but you won't like them, I'm sure. I like you, Frances, but I do not respect what you are doing. I have good reasons to despise divorce. You and Everett should find a way to live together. It may be a sacrifice, but find a way." I laughed, and the smile finally reached my eyes. "Forgive me. I'm not laughing at you. If you knew what you were asking... Frances, I'm the last person you should seek advice from, about such matters. I think what you're after is a piece of wisdom. I don't have much of that either. I've been married a long time-at least it feels that way-longer than you have been, and all I can say about it is that if either Malcolm or I had been less strong-willed and less of a challenge for one another, we would have gotten bored. At least I can say that we never bore each other."

"What an odd, sad way to describe a marriage." she mused.

"There are lots of ways of being miserable, but there's only one way of being comfortable, and that is to stop running round after happiness." I said. "I read that in a book, and it's true."

"How do you live like that?"

I just stared at her, at a loss for words.

"I know I'm doing what's right." I finally affirmed. "What you are engaging in can only come to disaster, no matter how you justify it to yourself."

"Everett will never find out."

"Good for you, then. But Malcolm would know. He has an uncanny way of knowing things, and he would notice changes, even subtle changes. He would know. And I can't do that; he trusts me not to, don't you see? Because of what his mother did. All of his problems-our problems-are a consequence of that."

I could tell she thought I was exaggerating, but she didn't comment.

"I'll think about what you said, Olivia. But may I give you some advice, as well?"

"I suppose so." I said warily.

"If you won't find someone else for yourself, then make Malcolm give you what you need. Insist that he be the kind of husband you want."

"You don't know Malcolm very well, then, if you can make such a suggestion. He cannot be forced into doing anything he doesn't already want. He only hears what he wishes to hear. Believe me, I've tried."

In some ways, the conversation was reminiscent of those I'd had with Alicia, when she'd thought Malcolm could be persuaded by me to change his mind. But Frances was wise in her own way, and was more insightful than Alicia. Despite our disagreements, I was grateful to have her companionship, even for a short while.

"Try, Olivia. Do something that will surprise him, and cause him to notice you. Do something he won't be expecting. Show him what he doesn't already know about you."

Just then, I noticed Malcolm watching us, from across the yard. He stood, talking to Everett, as they absent-mindedly pushed Joel and Megan on the swings.

Color rose to my cheeks, as if Malcolm could hear, even from that distance, the topic of our conversation, though I knew he could not. He beckoned to me. I glanced at my watch, and saw the lateness of the hour.

"I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking about. And what's more, I don't believe you do, either." I said.

"You are very stubborn, Olivia." Frances sighed, in mild exasperation.

"Yes, that's what everyone tells me."

"But you'd see I'm right if you would open your mind a bit. Believe me, a man won't pass it up if it's offered to him."

"I guess you'd know more about that than I would."

I regretted the unkind retort almost immediately. She looked hurt.

"Frances, I'm sure what you're saying makes sense, but it doesn't help me. Malcolm doesn't want... he doesn't want me to like it much, despite what he says, because then... I might look elsewhere, just as you are suggesting."

"But Olivia-"

I couldn't tolerate another second of the conversation! I was beginning to feel very upset; I'd revealed too much and betrayed myself.

"It's growing late. I'd better see about getting the boys to bed." I said dismissively, and calling Joel, went toward the house.

Later that night, I was abruptly awakened when I heard Malcolm's voice; he spoke softly, from my doorway.

"I saw your light. Are you awake?"

The woods nearby buzzed with the sound of cicadas. From below could be heard the silvery chimes of the clock in the parlor, but the house was quiet, everyone lost in their dreaming all but Malcolm and myself.

"Not really. I fell asleep reading, I suppose. I don't want you to wake the children, so come in, if you wish to talk."

He entered the room, shutting the door behind him, and took a place on the bed next to me, leaning against two pillows.

"You're up late." I observed.

"Everett and I have been talking, in the trophy room." he offered by way of explanation.

"And smoking, too." I said derisively. The sweet scent of the pipe's smoke was still on his clothes.

"It looked as though you and Frances were having an intense conversation in the garden. What were you talking about?"

"Matters which do not concern you. I won't break a confidence, Malcolm." I said, though I was tempted to reveal what I'd learned about the Hudsons' marriage.

"Well, Everett is impressed with you, Olivia. Says you are more sensible than his wife. It seems he's had some trouble with Frances."

"Oh? Did he ever consider that he might be the cause of the trouble?" I asked, a note of irritation creeping into my voice.

"I don't know anything about that." he said, shrugging.

"Did he tell you what sort of trouble?"

"It would hardly be fair of me to tell you what we talked about when you're not willing to do the same, now would it?"

I shook my head, disappointed.

"Mal's been studying the dictionary again." I said, just to change the subject.

I referred to Mal's most recent preoccupation, his favorite way of tormenting everyone, or sending us into helpless laughter, depending on one's frame of mind, and inclination to humor the child.

"I saw him with you at the swings. What gem did he come up with this time?" I asked, smiling.

"Nothing but insults directed toward me, as usual."

His brow furrowed as he tried to recall the strings of words, all of which began with the same letter.

"Well, that one's not very nice." I commented. "What did you do to provoke him, this time?"

"He wanted me to take him into town, and he has been bargaining with me, for days, to give him a loan."

"A loan?"

"He's spent all of his allowance, and wants to buy some overpriced toy he saw in the window of a shop we passed downtown, last week. I suppose this is some alphabetical form of revenge or rebellion."

"I'm telling you, Malcolm, he'll grow up to be a great writer."

"Don't encourage him in that direction. He will certainly not be a writer!" Malcolm snapped. "He's equally quick with numbers. I've been teaching him to read the stock tables."

"Still, I'm continuously surprised by the words he understands and can pronounce correctly. My favorite was last night's from dinner-something about opulence. Some sort of seven-year-old's commentary on our life. He's got one prepared for his return to school."

"His teachers are going to love that." said Malcolm, dryly.

"Well, at least now he's interested in school. Last week he threatened to run away, if we make him return, in September." I said, immediately regretting my words, as I anticipated another unpleasant argument about my choice of schools for the boys.

"I'm sure it helps that Joel will be going this year, as well."

"Malcolm, you ought to go into town tomorrow and get whatever it is he wants so badly."

"What? Reward his insolence? I might expect you to say that. No, Olivia. Besides, he has to learn some responsibility, with regard to money."

"I'm sure there's plenty of time for that."

"Speaking of money," he said, changing the subject, crossing the room to peer at the papers on my small writing desk, "I see one of your investments has done well."

He rarely acknowledged any wise decision I made, and I was pleased by the unexpected compliment.

"Since you bring it up, there's something I'd like to ask you about." I said, and went across to the desk. He pulled out the narrow ladder-back chair.

"Sit down, and I'll explain how this works."

The explanation was thorough, and more than I needed, as he leaned over my shoulder, speech intent, reminding me of one of my college professors, as he jotted figures and calculations on the pages. It occurred to me that instances such as this were some of the few times he wasn't impatient with those whose minds might not be as quick as his.

"Now, this is what I was beginning to explain to Mal last week," and on he spoke, quite absorbed by the inventiveness of his own instruction.

"I understand." I insisted. "Malcolm, this sort of thing should be one of your business ventures. I'm sure there are a number of people who could benefit from what you know, and from your advice. Matthew Allen and Everett already consult you on a regular basis, and I know they aren't the only ones to ask frequently for your input in such matters."

"I've been thinking very nearly the same thing." he said thoughtfully. "But I doubt I have the extra time."

"Nonsense. You've been looking for something else to try, talking about one new venture or another, for over a year. I could help, as well." I said, although I hadn't known until I said it that I would, or that I even wanted to. "With Joel going away to school next year too, I'll have more free time. Perhaps-just in the beginning-I might help you get organized."

I went back to my bed as I continued outlining the plan, as it took shape in my mind. He nodded slowly, speculatively.

"I'll consider it. It's not a bad idea. We'll talk it over. I'll give it some thought, over the next few weeks."

As Malcolm left, and I drifted toward sleep once more, my mind replayed the conversation with Frances. Her suggestion was ludicrous! It seemed it had been a long time since Malcolm's attentions toward me had been amorous. The possibility of change seemed remote.


	8. Christmas

Chapter 14 insert-B

CHRISTMAS

We were invited to spend Christmas with the Hudsons. When the idea was first presented to him, Malcolm was opposed.

"We have our own traditions. We always take the boys to see the lights. It's already been arranged with Lucas."

"We will do that the night before we go, Malcolm."

"Do you still want to see a film this evening?"

"Of course, but don't think you'll distract me from this conversation." I said.

"What about the Christmas party?"

"Surely, we can forego a party, this year. It is a lot of work, planning a dinner for one hundred people; I'd be glad to let someone else perform the duties of hostess."

I didn't like to admit that was because I'd had my fill, for the moment, of decorating and planning. My most recent project, undertaken in the autumn, had been to outfit the boys' new rooms in the north wing. Their rooms never contained the pianos I'd outrageously demanded Malcolm buy-though I could have pressed him to do so, perhaps. One piano in the parlor was sufficient, and the boys liked their new, larger rooms, which would be suitable for when they grew older, as well.

"Hire temporary help." he suggested.

"I'd like to go to Richmond. Malcolm, we have no other family-neither you nor I. Why can't we spend Christmas with your cousin's family? It would be a change, and good for the children. They would enjoy it."

"I'll consider it."

"Well, consider quickly. I should give Frances an answer by Friday. It was kind of them to ask. We really ought to go."

There was always something exciting about deep winter, the snow and the dark peace of being insulated by it. It spoke to me of things hidden, of transitions and silence and hope, bringing a quiet, inner peace that had nothing to do with external circumstances. Perhaps it was nothing more than unconscious memories of childhood, the eagerness of awaiting Christmas, of feeling loved and safe. I wished that quiet peace for my children; I wanted to diminish the isolation of life at Foxworth, if only for a short while.

"I never recall buying new decorations, yet there seem to be more ornaments, each year." said I, the next day, as Mal carried another box from an east wing cupboard into the foyer.

"That's impossible, Mother."-Mal, eager to seem grown up, and following the example of one of his little friends, had recently taken to calling me "Mother." to my ear, it sounded unnatural. "There are the same number as last year."

"Ah, yes, of course," I said, smiling.

Mal pulled a glass bell from one of the boxes.

"Be sure you put that one on a higher branch, so Corinne can't reach it." I reminded him. "And please, keep an eye on her until I finish this."

Corinne, in a new dress and pinafore in holiday colors, babbled happily as she watched all the festive preparations. She followed her brothers about, and running here and there in aimless excitement, she suddenly paused before the tree.

"No, no!" she scolded, pointing at the balsam fir. Clearly, she had misunderstood Mal's repeated warnings, meant to teach her not to grab for the ornaments.

The boys burst into laughter.

"I want the angel on the top, Mommy." said Joel.

"No, the star." insisted Mal, whose voice and will was more boisterous, even in minor matters such as this.

"I think we put up the star last year, Mal." I said.

Malcolm, who had been in his office all afternoon since lunch, emerged from a door beneath the stairway.

"Father likes the star best." Mal said, triumphantly.

"Olivia?"

"Up here." I said.

He looked up, his hand on the beveled rail of the rosewood balustrade, as though he were the one affected by vertigo, as was I, glancing downward from such a height. I wrapped the last bit of garland around the newel post, and descended the stairs.

"It's snowing!" announced Mal as he peered out a window, to be joined there by Joel. "Will it snow on my birthday?"

"It usually does."

"Do you know what we saw yesterday?" Mal asked Malcolm, bored with the view and letting the folds of the curtain fall back into place against the icy glass.

"How could I?"

"A talking bird!" His enthusiasm was indefatigable. "A real bird that spoke."

"A parrot."

"Yes, a parrot. It's even older than you. It said hello, and old chap, and some other things. Joel talked to it."

"Where was this?"

"At the Millersons'." I said. "You remember-the people who bought the Camden place. They have a son Mal's age."

The grandfather clock announced the hour with its mellow two-note chime.

"Mal, run along and ask Minnie to put the kettle on, please." I said, since the decorating was nearly finished.

"Can we have some pumpkin bread?"

"One piece, no more." I said.

"Can we open one present now?" pleaded Joel.

"Just ONE? Please?" chimed in Mal.

"Better now than to have to take them all to Richmond." said Malcolm.

I smiled, immensely pleased that he had finally assented.

"I suppose, since we won't be here on Christmas Eve," I said slowly. "You may open one present tonight."

"Oh boy, oh boy!"

Naturally, Mal reached immediately for the largest box.

"Not that one." I said. "I shall choose the one."

"Aw, that's NOT fair! You'll pick the most boring one."

"Mal." Malcolm's tone was reprimand, though half-hearted.

I passed out gifts.

"Well, I know her tricks." muttered Mal.

Within seconds, the parlor was strewn with discarded tissue paper and bright ribbons, in which Corinne delightetly played, until one of us helped her to open a gift of her own.

"Does Corinne think it's her birthday again?" asked Mal.

"Probably so."

Malcolm opened the most valuable of any of his gifts for that year-a very old Chinese abacus with ivory bars and translucent jade beads. It was more of an item for his collection, rather than something for practical use. I'd gone to considerable lengths to obtain it. He was quietly pleased.

"What can you do with it?" asked Mal, temporarily diverted from the joys of his new Auto Build kit, a toy I'd known he would love; it allowed him to build five different automobiles from one set of parts.

Mal didn't believe that the strange object had any practical use. Malcolm showed the boys how to use the abacus, and, clustered together, they were absorbed for a while, Mal giving him outrageous sums to solve.

We set out for Richmond two days later. We planned to spend a week there, so I had to pack the children's Christmas presents, as well as those for Victoria and Megan.

"Why are they getting heaps of presents?" demanded Mal. "Heaps and heaps."

"It isn't fair." added Joel, mumbling, as was his way lately.

"Speak distinctly." I said. "And I'm sure you'll all find the same number of gifts beneath the tree. Besides, how many makes one heap?"

Mal looked stumped; he was always so literal-minded that one couldn't resist teasing him.

Of course Malcolm, too, balked when he saw my choices.

"We can't very well arrive empty-handed, Malcolm."

"And we shan't be leaving that way, either." he said, continuing to grumble for ten minutes about the money wasted on toys which would not be appreciated.

To our chagrin, on Christmas morning when the girls opened their gifts, they were admonished by Mal-who knew the exact price of each item-to show proper gratitude.

Everett's home was neither as grand or as large as ours, but it had a more inviting atmosphere than Foxworth Hall.

The girls were good about entertaining Corinne and trying to include her, and the older children played harmoniously together at first, but the peace lasted only a short while. Victoria was bossy and unbiddable, Megan cried, and ran to her mother with tales over every perceived unfairness, and Mal began his usual chicanery, almost as soon as we arrived. Malcolm was constantly reprimanding him.

The Hudsons had only one spare bedroom, and so my children slept in Megan's room. The first night, Mal refused to go to bed because the frilly pink room was a supreme affront to him.

"Sleep on the floor, then." snapped Malcolm, after overhearing a few minutes of Mal's whining complaints.

"Mulligrubs." Mal muttered querulously.

"What did you say?" growled Malcolm.

"I said-"

"I'll hear none of your back talk."

"Yes sir." mumbled Mal, who knew better than to push the teasing very far.

"You'll sleep on the floor, and I don't want to hear another word from you, do you understand?"

"Malcolm, he'll catch cold!" I objected.

"Then he'll learn a lesson, won't he?" retorted Malcolm. The solution was acceptable to Mal-who had never in his life slept on a floor and found doing so a novelty. He found different things of which to cavil.

After a few days, Malcolm and I grew restless, as well. Being guests began to pall. Only so many visits with Frances could be made to ladies in the neighborhood, only so many cups of egg-nog, claret punch or apple cider consumed while listening to conversations in which I scarcely took part, before boredom set in.

If neither Everett nor Frances were near enough to overhear, Malcolm would ask how these afternoon visits had gone. Apparently, my responses were a source of entertainment for him. Putting aside his book, ("Reminiscences of a Stock Operator") he listened to my descriptions with his usual smirk.

I pitched my voice higher, mimicking the slow drawl of one or the other of Frances' friends.

"What a cunning capelet. My dear, wherever did you find that charming little hat? I absolutely must have the recipe for this butter pie from your housekeeper."

"Remember that this trip was your idea." he reminded me, unnecessarily. "Whether from want of mental training, or from impatience, to society women, there is nothing so unendurable as dissertations on current news events."

"So it would seem." I agreed. "The passion these women throw into...into nothing, is enough to drive anyone mad."

Although, I thought to myself, everyone was polite and interested, and it was pleasant, even restful to be among people who did not know us, or anyone from Charlottesville, who didn't endlessly discuss the same tidbits of well-known local gossip.

Frances and I taught the four children card games. I read to them from "The Wind Boy," (Megan's and Joel's choice) and a few chapters from a book Mal had unearthed from a box in our attic over the Thanksgiving weekend. "The Master Key" surpassed even the Tom Swift books, becoming his new favorite, and he went about for weeks, incorporating dialogue from the story into his own speech.

"I shall go by electric propulsion!" he would announce, as he rushed off to create some new mischief, and he excelled at creating mischief! His charm wore thin, even with the little girls, and I believe Frances was quite happy to see us leave, at the end of the week.

To pass the time one afternoon, I baked and decorated cookies with Meg and Victoria. But for trying to pilfer dough-laden spoons, the boys had little interest in anything but the finished product. Mal kept wandering in and out of the kitchen, but I took little notice of him until a frightful wail came from Joel.

"What have you done?" I demanded, detaining Mal as he tried to slip out of the kitchen.

"Why do you always say I did something?"

"Mal, I'm waiting for an answer."

"I dared him to eat pepper."

"Pepper?"

"He's such a lunkhead, I didn't think he would."

"Pepper?"

"You'll come to a bad end," said Victoria. "a very bad end."

"You first." retorted Mal.

"That's enough." I said, trying to stifle a laugh, "Mal, go find your father and tell him what you've done."

"Couldn't-couldn't you tell him?"

"I could, but I won't." I said.

He looked out the window.

"Mal, I am still speaking to you."

"Yes ma'am." he said solemnly, then went off, too easily, too gleefully, and I remembered that Malcolm wasn't there. He and Everett had gone out somewhere that afternoon.

"Oh, that child." I muttered to myself.

"Yes, he is a child." piped up Victoria, haughtily, folding her thin arms across her chest.

"It so happens that he is older than you, Miss Priss." I said. The girl really did remind me of myself at that age, and I was fond of her. "Come, help me do the washing up."

On Christmas Eve, the two older children went with Everett and Malcolm to look at a house Everett hoped to buy. Frances was glad to have them out of the way, while preparations for the evening's upcoming party were under way.

I took myself to our room and out of the way, glad to have a chance to lie down, before the party.

At eight o'clock, the children were put to bed, in spite of much protesting from the girls, who wanted to stay up and watch the guests arrive. Then we hurriedly got ready.

I wore my hair knotted in a chignon, and applied a few drops of a lavender perfume. A lustrous pearl choker complemented the silk chiffon midnight-blue dress Millicent had made especially for this party. It was the only time during the year I commissioned anything so extravagant. I'd wanted to have something new for this party, as I liked to wear something special every year-a dress that made me feel beautiful.

Our pictures were always taken, and mentions of us were commonly in the society pages. Each year's round of parties had to be more lavish than the ones before, and everything must reflect that.

Fashion was one of the things most talked about, and although I had little interest in it, I would never again feel as if I didn't measure up, in that regard. Some of the dresses Millicent made for me over the years were truly works of art, particularly the formal ones, and this one was no exception. When I went for the final fitting, Millicent had said:

"With your light complexion, blues and greens work so well for you. It'll have a wide collar. What do you think?"

She made me look at my reflection in one of the full-length mirrors.

"I think you should add some lace." I said.

"And lower the neckline, Millicent," instructed Miss Bertram, as she passed through the room. She had a disconcerting way of staring. "You can carry it off." she said to me. "Accentuate what you have."

"Hmm. Your opals would be stunning with this, Olivia."

"I don't have any opals."

"You will have." Millicent said, laughing. "When I saw Malcolm in Cosgrove's shop and at a complete loss, I dropped a hint. So when you do get them for Christmas or your birthday, they're from me. Oh, and you would have loved to have seen the look on his face when he saw my hair."

Millicent had recently had her hair bobbed. I think she relished the surprise expressed, and I could only imagine what Malcolm's judgment would be.

I didn't think her new style quite suited her, but I didn't say so.

She stepped back to survey her work again.

"I do like it. Very much. Thank you." I said.

"Malcolm won't be able to contain himself."

"Oh, Millicent, really!"

"Really."

"I'm fairly certain he'll be able to keep his wits about him." I said dryly.

"At least until after the party, eh?" said Isabel.

"At least until he gets your bill." I quipped, smiling a little, for I had been in high spirits that day, anticipating the trip to Richmond.

I knew I was looking my best, and I wanted to savor the moment. Not surprisingly, Malcolm barely glanced at me, as we made our way downstairs.

When we entered the front hall, a tall, middle-aged woman-resplendent in floor-length black velvet-beckoned to us. Malcolm drew me forward to introduce me to Everett's mother, Adelaide.

"Malcolm," she exclaimed. For such a fragile-looking woman, she had a startlingly robust voice. "Where have you been keeping yourself? How are you?"

"Very well, thank you." He turned to me. "Adelaide, this is my wife-"

"Yes, Olivia. Everett's told me all about her-from up north, somewhere."

"That's right. Connecticut."

"Why haven't you two come for a visit, before now?"

"I'm very glad to meet you now, Mrs. Hudson." I said.

"Do call me Adelaide." she insisted. "I understand there are children?"

"We have three."

"I should like to see them tomorrow. Are they very much like you, Malcolm?"

"I really couldn't say," Malcolm replied, disconcerted.

"Well, why ever not?"

"Mal is, rather." I granted, answering her questions about the children, until Everett joined us.

"He's a bit of a live wire, Mother. You'll like Mal." said Everett.

"Over dinner, he and Victoria had a heated debate as to whether all the stars are worlds, like our planet, or just a few of them, as Victoria contended. He told her that she couldn't really know, as she's only a girl. I'm afraid Malcolm told Mal that it's sometimes best to just let her think she's right." laughed Frances.

"He's going to be impossible, now." I said.

"No more than usual." Malcolm commented.

"You should know by now that he takes what you say seriously."

We moved on to mingle with the Hudsons guests, and surely, no one invited to the party went away disappointed with the entertainment. The refreshments were served buffet style, and the table decorations of White narcissi and pink carnations were nicely arranged.

Later, I heard Adelaide remark to Everett how undignified she thought Frances's dress, which was of a black silk tulle, with purple beaded orchids with hints of yellow and green, a bow at the hip and diagonal beaded hemline. I was glad Frances was not near enough to overhear the criticism. Her dress was similar to many of the other gowns I saw, although Frances did not wear the Egyptian-inspired jewelry that had become so popular. Really, the women didn't need jewelry, with the glittering array of sequins and beads that adorned most gowns.

"Malcolm, you wouldn't let your wife go about in such a costume, would you?" Adelaide asked.

Malcolm didn't reply. She had an amusing way of rendering him speechless.

"Just as well, dear." she said to me. "The current waistless fashions would not suit you. It's quite unflattering to a woman to dress like a girl."

She broke off to greet a group of people who had just arrived.

Everett should have gone to greet them as well, but for a moment, his gaze rested on me. His stare made me uncomfortable. Everett had a forceful personality. Even when he said nothing, one was conscious of him, and when he moved his sienna eyes you were induced to move yours to learn what had caught his attention.

Frances, leaving her husband's side, wandered over, bringing with her the mingled scents of Turkish cigarettes and Cuir de Russie perfume. She smoked one cigarette after another. She claimed she could never eat at her own parties, but she seemed to be enjoying herself, once she saw that her guests were having a good time.

Taking a chair in a corner after half an hour, I hoped to remain inconspicuous. I held a full glass; it seemed to be the only protection available against continued offers of more drinks, and the occasional invitation to dance. I didn't remain alone long, and so had to listen to Adelaide Foxworth Hudson, as she nibbled a crabmeat croquette, expound upon all the ills of modern society, and her own family.

During the course of the evening, she must have found my company acceptable. She seemed to relish regaling me with unsolicited opinions, and stores of gossip. I didn't mind. It saved me from having to struggle to make conversation with the foppish strangers at the party, and force smiles, feigning interest in the women's chatter, which mainly pertained to films I hadn't yet seen.

Adelaide talked, but rarely gave me a chance to respond. Indeed, she seemed not to require responses to most of her monologues. She just assumed I concurred with her opinions, and so I was only half listening to her, as well as eavesdropping upon fragments of conversation from a group of men, nearby, who were talking of golf, then of the Teapot Dome indictments.

"It was a disgrace!" said Adelaide, in her emphatic way. " I can't imagine why my brother married that girl, Eliza."

"Alicia." I corrected.

"Alicia." she repeated, grimacing as if she'd just heard a disagreeable fact. "No one had ever heard of her family. We knew nothing about her background. What happened to her, do you know?"

"She went to her family-a mother or sister, I believe. That's all I know. Here, in Richmond." I said, with an inward shiver of shock, for I hadn't thought at all of Alicia's whereabouts. I refrained from adding that I did not think much of Alicia's father for not making adequate provisions, and the true disgrace was that Garland continued to keep her absolutely dependent.

"I'm glad to see that Malcolm has better sense than his father. Garland never did have good judgment,, concerning women."

"Oh? Did you know Garland's first wife?"

"My dear, I had to live under the same roof as that butterfly for an entire year."

I began to be interested.

"She was no lady, for that you can take my word. Ill-bred and ill-mannered, and no education worth speaking of." opined Adelaide. " My brother had a penchant for very young girls from disreputable families. He fancied rescuing them, pampering them. He didn't need to adhere to convention with them, you see."

"I don't understand." I said.

"Garland visited Richmond frequently that summer. There was some fiction about the exact date of the wedding, as I recall. Garland and Corinne were still away when Malcolm was born, that next March."

"Away?"

"They stayed in Richmond for a year, and I do believe," Adelaide lowered her voice, "that Garland felt that Corinne may have already been enceinte when he met her."

"But there's no question but that Malcolm is Garland's son. They look so alike. You must be mistaken."

"Oh, there's no doubt now, of course. But she did give Garland cause to doubt."

This was no great secret, and while I had no positive feeling toward Corinne myself, I disliked Adelaide's pointless gossip. It might be increasingly difficult to show her the respect one's elders deserved, the respect my mother had instilled in me from my earliest days.

"Adelaide, there's something I've wondered about."

"What's that, dear?"

"Did Garland know why she left?"

"I doubt it. He wasn't given to considering a woman's thoughts. He only cared that he was part of them, and Corinne was obviously not thinking of Garland when she left."

"Did Garland ever try to find her?"

"Find her!" she exclaimed with a derisive sniff. "Garland loved her. Love is an escape in the beginning, and habit later on. Those two should never have married; neither had the temperament to make a success of it. He wouldn't have wanted to force her to stay with him against her will. My brother was not that kind of man."

"I just thought-"

"No, dear," she said, in a more subdued, reasonable way. "It was for Malcolm's sake. Garland believed it would be best for Malcolm if Corinne was forgotten.  
She made her choice."

"I suppose." I said, unconvinced. During the years when I'd known Garland, where the subject of Corinne was concerned, he had been quite insensitive to Malcolm's feelings, albeit in a good-natured way.

"Everett's father-" Adelaide always referred to her husband in this way, as if he had no name, no other function, and no purpose beyond that parental role. Strangely, no one spoke of Calvin Hudson, and he seemed never to be present at times when one would expect to see him. I was suddenly aware that, during Malcolm's formative years, these people had given him the only good example of what a family should be. "Everett's father and I undertook half the job of raising Malcolm." she claimed, with an air of martyrdom.

I knew this claim to be an exaggeration. Malcolm had spent a few holidays with his aunt and uncle, but Adelaide could hardly call that "raising" him. She was, generally, given to exaggeration of all kinds, in her anecdotes, even in her manner of speaking.

"Managing the two of them would have been... but you probably don't know about that."

"Pardon?"

"Malcolm was a twin. There was a girl, too. Melinda Nell was her name. Just the loveliest little girl. She was the quiet one."

Unlike Malcolm, I thought. She had been the easier child to love, no doubt, and that had to have affected him in some way.

"Malcolm has never mentioned this."

I envisioned a baby very much like my Corinne-but a docile version of her, and thought that was what Malcolm's sister would have been like.

"He may not remember." she said.

"He claims to remember quite a lot." I contradicted. "Corinne must have taken the girl with her. He would remember something like that, surely."

"In those days," Adelaide continued, "there were a number of us living at Foxworth. You have the whole place to yourselves now, I hear."

"Yes."

"Well, Garland and Corinne lived in the north wing, before he had that ridiculous, frilly room put together for her. In the middle of the summer, Melinda fell out of one of those low windows. She died. It was Corinne's maid who found her."

"How sad." I said. Then another terrible thought occurred to me. "Malcolm didn't see it happen, did he?"

"That, I don't know."

I had a dozen questions, but I thought it best not to ask them. This wasn't merely a topic for gossip to Adelaide. I sensed that the little lost niece had occupied a special place in her affections. During the time she was talking about, in 1892, Adelaide would have been at an impressionable age, at most,  
twenty-one years old. The death of Melinda Nell may well have been her first encounter with the grim reality of life-the other side of love, when she was just embarking on her own venture into marriage and motherhood.

"They were only a year old, so Malcolm would have no memory of the incident, and it wasn't talked about. After that, Garland hired nannies-probably the best thing he ever did. Corinne had no notion of how to raise a child. Such a one she was for parties, and fancy clothes, but little else."

"So I've gathered." I said, still reeling from this new information.

"Frances does have superb taste. In that respect, she reminds me of Corinne." Adelaide was saying, when Malcolm suddenly appeared.

"You needn't hover about, Malcolm. Bring Olivia a fresh drink. This is a very good spiced wine."

"Later, perhaps." I murmured. I'd already had two glasses, and the room glowed and swam as Malcolm propelled me away to dance.

"You're a little unsteady." he said into my ear. "Had a bit too much."

"A bit." I admitted, enjoying the warming effect of the mulled wine.

"I thought you might have had enough of listening to Adelaide."

"You don't like her."

"She is my father's sister. That becomes more apparent with each passing year." he said wryly. "Whatever she's been telling you, don't take it seriously. She can go on so, and what she doesn't know, she invents."

"Is that true?"

"Unfortunately, it is. The summer she was fifteen, she was committed to a colony for the feeble-minded. My father told me."

I was shocked.

"She is the youngest of my father's siblings." continued Malcolm. "They had an older brother, Jonathan, who drowned in the lake the year before Adelaide was born. Adelaide claimed to... see him."

"See him?"

"And to hear voices-Jonathan's voice, specifically. As a child, she was very taken with the story of him."

Malcolm had once alluded to some cousins who had been an embarrassment to the Foxworths, and I wondered if the reference had, instead, been to this aunt.

"Children are often drawn to such tales, Malcolm. That can't have been such a cause for concern."

Shrugging, he changed the subject. But I believed the things she told me were true, even if colored a little by her own negative opinions.

At twelve-thirty, the party still gave every indication of lasting for hours. Most of the guests were laughing and obnoxiously inebriated, by that time. Malcolm and I did not indulge ourselves in this way often, and as the noise escalated and the jokes became more ribald, we surreptitiously slipped away from the crowd and into the vestibule.

"You know we'll have to go back."

"No one will notice our absence." he said. "Are you tired?"

"Not really."

"Then go up and put on warmer clothes. I'll get our coats. I want to get some air."

Ten minutes later, we were walking across the snow-covered lawn. Malcolm walked as though he had a purpose in mind, then he stopped abruptly.

"Where are we going?"

"Wait." he said, and went toward the darkened side of the house. His back was to me, and I heard his voice, but not his words. I waited. Snowflakes floated down onto my skin and melted in tiny rivulets down my cheeks. I was growing impatient with the unexplained delay, when I saw him reach up to help the sturdy form of Mal over the windowsill, and then the two of them were with me.

"What are you doing out of bed at this hour?"

"I can't go to sleep." Mal said happily, full of energy and the thrill of being allowed out of doors, past his bedtime.

"You didn't wake your brother, did you?"

"No." he said, scornfully. "He went to sleep in the middle of a story I was telling."

"Did you plan this, Malcolm?" I asked, knowing he didn't.

"Olivia, he was hanging over the window ledge. I went to tell him to go to bed, and-"

"I saw you leaving. Can't I go with you?" asked Mal.

"Oh, all right," I was reluctant, but he looked as eager as we were to escape the house. "Did you put on your mittens?"

"He has them." Malcolm said, as we began to walk.

"I'll show you where Everett and I used to go sledding." Malcolm said to me as Mal ran on ahead, kicking up the powdery snow. "I thought I'd bring the kids out here tomorrow."

It was a beautiful night. I felt invigorated by the bracing cold and being away from the party. That walk was the highlight of the trip for me. I couldn't remember when last we had done anything or gone anywhere together-just the three of us.

Mal scooped up handfuls of snow,formed it into a ball and paused in indecision before launching it toward me. I pretended not to have seen it coming and tossed one back at him. Malcolm stood by, watching, until I stepped aside at the last second, and the freezing mass of snow Mal had sent hurtling in my direction found Malcolm instead. I followed it with one of my own, and Mal did the same, and Malcolm had no choice but to join our game.

"Tell me about yourself." Adelaide said to Mal, the following afternoon. He looked at her as if he couldn't parse this request.

"I got skates for Christmas." he finally said.

"And where will you skate?"

"Outside, because Mother says not in the foyer. But we can't skate until it stops snowing. Do you know where I live?"

"I do. I used to live at Foxworth Hall." she said.

"I don't remember." said Mal, with a skeptical look.

"It was a long time before you were born."

"We have three motorcars, now." he said proudly, and described his favorite to her, in minute detail.

"Perhaps you ought to be getting into one of them now." said Malcolm, as he passed by carrying a suitcase. "You heard what I said. We are leaving in ten minutes."


	9. Dancing with Smoke

Chapter 14 insert-C

DANCING WITH SMOKE

"For love must have the flavor of its circumstances, and these continually change." - Amelia E. Barr

Alicia's presence had been such a trial to me, and Garland's presence had been a trial to Malcolm, but their influence on our lives was not the sole cause of what remained wrong between us. I half believed that the blame lay fully with me, as Malcolm implied. He would also have me accept the blame for his encounter with Alicia. If he could, Malcolm would undoubtedly have me own the blame for every single disappointment in his world.

Malcolm's hurtful words-so many throughout the years-left indelible scars. Such things were only spoken from within his anger. If I could convince myself this was true, his judgments would lose some of their power to wound, but I'd been locked in my prison of doubt for so long that shifts in my perspective were slow to evolve.

"Do something he won't be expecting."

Two years had passed since that conversation. I had not forgotten Frances Hudson's advice, nor had I taken it seriously. Idly, I began to think of it one summer afternoon.

In my garden, surrounded by all that was healthy and serene, it seemed impossible that everything else in life didn't follow suit, that I couldn't alter events to make it so, as I could in this, my realm. Here, where I was mistress and keeper of all that flourished under my care, I had no insecurities;  
I knew my own power. Like the earth's seasons and cycles that brought renewal, why could I not begin a new one in my marriage?

"Try, Olivia." Frances had urged, and why couldn't I? But try what? I had no reason to think anything would change, that neglect could breed passion or simple interest, but perhaps that was my choice.

Thirty-four years of my life had passed, yielding little joy. I had grown accustomed to the existence I led. I had become cynical, no longer believing in fairy tale love. It had been naive to have expected such a love from a person like Malcolm, and indeed, if I was honest, from myself.

Frances was right: I must make the most of what I did have; no one's life was ideal. Why had I expected mine to be? Frances and I never again discussed our marriages, but I spun out the conversation in my mind, for I imagined I knew just what she would say.

I was not one to have my spirit crushed as easily as I'd been allowing. Malcolm married me, and I must remind him that he had chosen well. He couldn't have married me if there had been no attraction, and when I thought about what he had actually said, free of my own insecurities, I knew that it was only my unresponsiveness with which he found fault.

I might have realized this sooner, if I hadn't been so blinded by self-pity and the disillusionment that set in, stealthily, I guessed, during the final year of Garland's life. I knew, intermittently, the emotional numbness, mistaken for boredom, that led Frances into trouble.

That afternoon, I'd visited Alberta (Bertie to her friends) Millerson. We were little more than acquaintances at that point, yet, once a week she asked me over for games of tennis, or invited me to tea. I rather enjoyed it, and our boys got along famously. Now, home again, I wanted some time to myself, and Malcolm, returning from work a bit earlier than anticipated on that Friday, crossed the wide green lawn toward the side yard, where I was planting blueberry and raspberry bushes.

"I see you're doing Olsen's job again. You're a sight."

Malcolm, of course, never understood the sustenance I took from the quiet life of my garden.

"Where is Olsen, anyway?"

"He's building a treehouse for the boys." I said.

"You approved this?"

"Why not?"

"Why not, indeed." he said after a few seconds' thought.

I straightened, removed my gloves, and brushed soil away. I expected our conversation to be brief.

"Well, what is it?" he would ask, impatiently waiting for me to finish with him so he could continue on into the house. But he seemed to be in a decently good mood. On this day, he was to have closed the deal on buying a chain of east coast hotels, by far his most ambitious venture to date, and his triumphant look indicated it had gone well.

If he had arrived home ill-tempered, or on the heels of a disappointing day, I should not have been able to act as I did. It was only by virtue of the favorable circumstances that the events I relate were possible.

"I've been waiting for you."

"Oh? Then perhaps you'll be pleased to hear that we now own Langridge Hotels," He enumerated the particulars of the acquisition.

Malcolm always dressed well, and that day he wore a new three-piece suit and Windsor-knotted tie, his gold watch chain draped across his vest. He was, as ever, handsome and alluring in his aura of confidence.

Before I had time to feel timid, I went to him, free of illusions. I hoped my eyes and lingering congratulatory kiss was redolent of what I had not learned to express in words. I moved my hands under his buttoned-up jacket and vest with a boldness that was new to me. I wanted to feel, smell and taste the summer on his skin and in his hair. Malcolm took my arm, and together we walked to the house, and up the narrow back stairs.

Malcolm's was a large, manly room. Its oak furniture and paneling swallowed up most of the light that came through the heavy draperies of the three south-facing windows, but a bar of orange sunlight slanted across one corner, lighting the edge of the bureau, the gleaming hardwood floor and the glass-paneled front of a bookcase which stood near the double doors to the adjoining sitting-room.

We stopped in the doorway alcove, facing each other.

"What do you want, Olivia?"

I looked up, held his gaze and forced myself to speak.

"You."

Swiftly, he closed the space separating us.

"Let me hear you say that, again."

I removed the pocket watch from his vest, glanced at it, and let it fall onto a small table behind me. There was time, if I was allowed time.

Often, I felt repelled by Malcolm's intensity, repelled by the feel of his seed inside me, the day after-a reminder that my body was not my own. Now, inviting the attention I usually preferred to avoid, I felt a flutter of apprehension. But desire has its own way of erasing unpleasant memories, and I was giving in to myself, more than I was giving in to Malcolm.

"You want me." he stated, as if cementing the truth of it in his mind.

"I thought that was fairly obvious. Please, if you could... help me-" I began, all traces of prim tones suddenly gone from my voice, although my confidence was a pretense.

"Yes?"

"Malcolm, I-I want you to make me-" I broke off; the shock of hearing myself make such a daring request aloud was great. But I felt that I must say it now, or never would I have the courage, again. "Help me to want it as much as I should-as much as you want it."

I must not show desperation. I had his attention, and that was quite a feat, but I thought I read doubt in his face.

"You can," I went on, emphasizing "you," hoping that he wouldn't, in some future irrational moment, wonder if this was inspired by anyone other than himself. He must not think me the kind of woman that Alicia or Frances was! "and you... you have. You can, again. A little of your time is all I shall ask of you."

From far down the hall, the voices of Minnie and Mrs. Stratton could be heard. We stood motionless, waiting. I half expected Malcolm to come to his senses and rush away to see Corinne. He did not, but the tension was broken, the fragile intimacy of the moment lost.

My mind cleared. What was I doing?

Malcolm did not welcome physical contact which he himself did not initiate. This I knew from observing him with the children. He did not often hug them-not even little Corinne-but rather, he relied on more curt, masculine forms of affection, particularly with the boys. He did not like to be touched; he craved space, both physical and mental, and a great deal of solitude. Why had I assumed, even for a moment, that he would be receptive?

"I'll go." I said quietly, feeling very self-conscious.

I had tried, I thought-tried and failed. It might have happened this way, but it couldn't, for I hadn't the courage to transform my thoughts into action.

It would only ever be me, alone, bringing these scenes alive in my mind, as I lay in my hammock, on a summer day, or in my own room, my eyes lit with desire that my husband would not see. Reverie was often superior to reality, and it would be all, for me.

"No second thoughts, Olivia." Malcolm said.

I walked to a window, and looked out through the trees, across the driveway and the grounds in front of the house. The shade was raised a few inches, and evening light streamed in beneath it. The setting sun washed the clouds in a pink tint.

"Where are the boys?" Malcolm asked, joining me by the window.

"Spending the day at the Millersons'. Lucas will fetch them home, after dinner."

"Good."

His arms went around me. He massaged my shoulders and upper arms. I willed myself to relax, to enjoy the sensation of touch, the contrast of the coarse texture of the material against my skin, and the soft silk of my undergarments, (my one self-indulgence, concealed by the modest dresses which were the mainstay of my wardrobe.)

Earlier in the day, before my foray into the garden, I'd dressed in a long skirt and colorful blouse with square neckline, and I regretted Malcolm's having arrived home unexpectedly, to find me so unpresentable... as if it truly mattered or made any difference!

Now I was clad in an old, worn shirt of Malcolm's, and slacks I only put on when gardening, for women did not wear them commonly in those days. These unfeminine clothes should have made me feel unattractive, but I forgot all that under the onslaught of his attentions.

"And this... is very good." he breathed. His hands moved down and around my ribcage to settle just below my bosom.

I felt as though he touched my bare skin, but it was only through the cotton of my shirt-his shirt. I drew in my breath at the sharp desire that caught at me, as he cupped my breasts, which could not be encompassed by his hands. I was accustomed to having such feelings only when alone. Only in the absence of his attentions did I want them so intensely.

Loving Malcolm was like dancing with smoke; it was Malcolm's passionless kisses that made me want to follow the desire that I sensed, but had never known fully, when we were together.

I did not know if I could enjoy this, no matter how promising the beginning, or if my responses would become strictured. I never understood why I could only accommodate, but not share the need which compelled Malcolm. It should be easy: all I need do was not resist. But there was more to it-I wanted more. I was afraid of how vulnerable I felt, but it was time I let go of my youthful notions of what love should be.

He was unhurried, and I was glad, for my nerve had begun to ebb.

"Where was your hat?" he asked, touching my cheek, trailing his fingertips across my collarbone where a necklace would lie. "You've caught too much sun."

I pushed the window open further, leaning away from him in the process. The room was stifling; the windows upstairs had been shut all day because the children and I had been elsewhere. The advent of room coolers at Foxworth Hall was still five years in the future.

"It's so-I'm so hot." I said, pushing my damp hair off my forehead.

"Are you?"

The way Malcolm said that, barely more than a whisper, left me quite breathless.

"No second thoughts." he repeated, not unkindly, perhaps sensing my faltering nerve. "You can resume hating me again tomorrow."

Malcolm removed the combs, placing them on the windowsill, and my hair fell around my shoulders. He lifted it from my neck and let it fall again.

Days spent under the August sun did not put color in my fair complexion, but did highlight the rich red in my hair-the only feature of my appearance I believe to be pretty, and of which I could be proud.

Catching sight of my reflection in the glass of the bookcase, I was momentarily discomfited. How indecent I looked, with my hair down, in garments which clearly defined my shape, without the fullness of a proper skirt. Thoroughly unremarkable, I looked nothing like the women who induced in me such wistful envy. I looked nothing like them, and after ten years of familiarity, Malcolm still wanted me-and more surprisingly, I still cared that he did.

"You're quite certain?"

Malcolm had never before asked this, and might never care to ask it again. He was being uncharacteristically careful, and in return I must be careful not to be too grateful, not to make of this more than it was.

"Yes, God help me."

He turned me from the window, and began gently, deliberately, to work loose my buttons.

It occurred to me that this was the first time I'd come to his room of my own volition.

On our first afternoon, in the Swan Room, I'd wondered at that as yet unknown sensuality, beyond anything I could have dreamt, I'd thought. How could things have gone so wrong? How could a marriage consummated in the light of day-in the light of reality in such luxury as that room, be anything but sensual?

I had long been waiting to discover that suppressed sensuality, to learn the luxury of my body and of Malcolm's. I offered no resistance as I allowed myself to be taken by my partner, my enemy, co-creator of this shared life. If nothing was forbidden between us, as Malcolm had once said-not pain, then certainly not pleasure, either, and we had much to learn. This was a beginning, of sorts.

Circumstances formed me into one capable of many contradictions, capable of loving and hating in equal, violent measures. Finally, I was willing to accept that the lack of a declaration of love did not preclude pleasure. I must read all I was meant to know in Malcolm's mesmerizing eyes. I would never hear lavish, sweet words and compliments such as I read in books, but that must cease to matter. I learned that I could be seduced, not by rosy, girlish fantasies, but by the powerful, mercenary man I had married.

"I want to see you." he said, when I asked him to pull the shade to block out the light.

In direct contrast to the hungry look in his eyes, his speech was controlled, calming me, as he began to speak of the day, his plans and his successes. He talked on, as if what he was presently doing wasn't happening, and it was very effective.

His kiss parted my lips, seeking, yielding. Beneath the layers of clothing I felt him grow hard, and a reciprocal quickening in myself. I sat, arms at my sides, scarcely breathing or moving, on the edge of the bed. Malcolm trailed his fingers along the scalloped edges of my camisole, over my shoulder and the swell of my bosom, tantalizingly, making an effort not to rush.

"Tomorrow, when we go to dinner at the Bromleys," he began. "will you wear this under your dress?"

I nodded.

"Show me," he whispered, tugging suggestively at the ribbon-thin strap.

"Oh, I-" I demurred, flustered, sure that I could not face further deviation from familiar patterns, just yet. "You always do this."

"So I do." he said with the hint of a smile.

With less patience, his fingertips skimmed the silk of my undergarment, exploring the fitted edges, releasing the tiny buttons at my waist. Only when he had removed everything but my rings, did he begin to shed his own clothes. I closed my eyes and waited, listening to the sounds of cuff links, keys and coins falling onto the bureau.

"You're skin is so clean, so perfect."

The statement of fact was more comfortable to both of us than soft, palavering love words would have been.

I kissed his ear, ran my tongue over and into its curve, which made him gasp. I pulled him closer. My hands roamed, exploring his body, loving the smell of his hair and the softness of the flaxen strands, the smoothness of supple skin, the strength and power of him, kissing all the places the sunlight warmed.

I felt grateful to be allowed such liberties, grateful not to be criticized. Encouraged, I allowed myself to dare more, for after ten years, I knew what he liked.

"That's it." he whispered.

Watching for my reaction, he smoothed a hand from my ankle to my knee and further, slowly, to my hip where his fingertips traced circles.

Oh, but he was beautiful, and when he chose, he knew how to make me feel as though I was,as well. I began to know a newfound pride in my body, even my height-all that made me unique, and my unfashionably pale skin. It would last as long as this moment endured.

"What do you most want?" it was my turn to inquire, not expecting a serious answer.

"I want you to be present, as present as you are when you tend your plants, when you're in the garden on your knees. I want to hear you tell me what you were doing... and what you will do now." he said, the inflection in his voice insinuating some illicit talk. This wasn't the time to be literal-minded, but what could I say? "Tell me what you want."

"I-I don't think I can."

"I don't think you can have what you can't even ask for." he said, amused.

I picked at a loose thread in the velvet bedspread, wishing, suddenly, to draw it up and shield myself from his direct gaze.

Maybe what Malcolm had said of me was true; maybe it was not in my nature to give him what he needed, for I felt that all amatory activity, even when by chance I enjoyed it, was degrading.

"I'll tell you." said Malcolm, unconcerned with my attack of shyness. His lips closed over my breast, caressing the nipple with increasing sureness, as he prodded my legs apart, opening me, making me ready. "I'll tell you what you want me to do to you."

The warmth grew into an ache to be touched, to be joined, to please. This yearning toward oneness came as a revelation, for although I imagined it many times, I hadn't understood how easily one can lose the sense of separateness, of self, that I can forget that my natural inclination is to be straight-laced and reserved.

"Malcolm," It was a plea, an invitation, a command. "I want... to please you." I finally confessed, pressing my kiss to his neck, to his ear as I spoke. His breathing was labored as he held off the moment of union. "I want to take care of you. I want to let you have-have your way. Now. Please, Malcolm. Now."

As though I'd bestowed some gift with my words, he looked into my half-closed eyes searchingly, before giving in to his own uncompromising need. His weight bore me back as he pressed inside me, urgently, and he moved his hands beneath me to bring us closer. I clung to him, and we fell into a rhythm, becoming sure of each other.

The warm resonance of his voice seemed to flow through me, as he whispered sweet obscenities and promises into my ear.

I could not summon intelligible words. But Malcolm spoke, demanding more. As if it were a private wish or thought, he said my name, "Liv," the diminutive form he never used when I was fully clothed, but it was right for this interlude.

I strained all of my senses, willing him to reach some unknown chasm in my body... my soul-a well that longed to be filled. Finally, I surrendered to pleasure. The fusion of skin, of our desire was blissful. There was no magic or mystery about it, and I did not have to fear it any longer.

I thought these frantic moments could stand as recompense for love's absence. I hoped they would banish Malcolm's feelings of restlessness. To Malcolm, this possession was love. And so we used each other. It was an effective temporary solace.

Whatever it took to keep him out of the clutches of other women, I would do. I would try whatever was required to keep my peace of mind. Malcolm had spoken truthfully; anger and desire were closely entwined, for I knew my new determination to be driven by the indignity with which I'd been living. It had little to do with love, rather, it was a desire for mastery. For I'd come to believe that Malcolm understood love only in terms of control, and I vowed that it would be mine, from this day on. It was what he wanted, somewhere in the recesses of his tangled reasoning. It was part of our unspoken contract that I would keep his house... and keep him in line.

I put aside the self-loathing which might poison me, if I thought too much. This is what it was to be Mrs. Malcolm Neal Foxworth, mistress of Foxworth Hall.

Afterward, we lay together, recovering, not speaking.

"Are you happy?" he asked, some minutes later, the question taking me by surprise.

"Well-" I considered how I should answer.

"It's not a complicated question." There was a slight impatient, hard-edged quality to his voice. He was asking about this moment, and so I answered truthfully that I was.

"And-and you? Are you happy?"

"I am quite satisfied."

"I am going to be what you need." I vowed, determined that he should understand, without another unpleasant scene, that I hoped for some sort of lasting change.

"You are."

I wanted to believe that, but I could not-not when my trust was irrevocably damaged. Not when, at times, I almost hated him for his coldness toward me and toward the boys.

We were not speaking the same language, but I tried not to mind, as he guided my hand. He brought my fingers to his lips. Such sweet, strange new sensations,  
these, my fingers in his mouth, his mouth on my skin, such kisses as I'd not known before, for the crook of my elbow, the nape of my neck. I smiled and closed my eyes for the precious few minutes until I was needed elsewhere.

If events unfolded just as I've described, I shall not say. I certainly daydreamed. It would be a betrayal to write down every word spoken, and to record every detail of what is meant to be private. If daydreams echoed reality, that reality is mine alone to remember.

Such heightened sensation cannot be sustained, of course, cannot regularly be repeated, and, I found over time that though Malcolm had accused me of lacking "affection," it was he who had infrequent interest in lovemaking. It was a point which wasn't to be acknowledged; it was a dangerous subject.

Malcolm never made any allusion to our relations during the day-a discretion for which I was grateful, for otherwise, humiliation would have prevented me from letting go of my inhibitions. In the deep of night when he held me, I could sink into a complete dissociation from myself, forgetting who and where I was.

I could almost have believed it was all a dream. In a way, not speaking of it made it more exciting. At any rate, not talking was what was familiar.  
I wasn't sure that I even wanted to change that. Did I really need or want to know all of his thoughts? Wasn't it better that Malcolm remain, at least in part, a mystery?

Perhaps there was nothing to withhold, and it was I who imagined some other part of himself that he would not give. It was an astonishing possibility when this occurred to me, and yet, my passing thoughts did not alter the established pattern of daily interaction, nor was it protection against the next tiff or cool glance.

While there was no other drastic change between us, on this one level we had begun a new chapter. If Malcolm ever wondered about it, I never knew. He wasn't an analytic person, except in matters of business and politics. I had his grudging respect, but he did not choose to be generous, and from him, kindness was incidental. I could not imagine Malcolm otherwise.

Would I be as drawn to him if he was kind? Once, it would never have occurred to me even to ask such a question of myself. Once, I would have known the answer to that question.

For a time, the disparity between us was less noticeable, or perhaps it was merely that these new compensations made it easier to live with.

The summer and fall passed.

Corinne, nearly three years old, continued to be the center of attention. By now, everyone had adjusted to this fact, although it continued to upset me, and Malcolm went to extremes in his indulgence of an infant daughter. (Why, We must have been the only family in Virginia whose child had an English nanny!) But I had more time to spend with Corinne when Mal and Joel returned to school.

That autumn, Mal-nine years old and somewhat more settled-made a few new friends, and seemed, finally, to be enjoying school. He applied himself to his studies with a determination with which his teachers and his father could not find fault. He was, of my three, the most spirited and the brightest. Even at an early age, Mal's speech was clear, and he had learned to read before most of his peers. Oh, I was so proud of him! Pride, as John Amos cautioned me in later years, would be my downfall.

Joel, on the other hand, was too sensitive; he would say such peculiar things. When he was very young, he insisted that certain inanimate objects-an umbrella,  
a window sash-were sad, though I tried to explain to him that they were not alive, and therefore could not have feelings. He cried when a puppy in one of his storybooks was lost. He assigned colors to days of the week, names, shapes-just another of Joel's incomprehensible ideas. That summer, when he turned seven, he took to hiding inside cabinets, behind draperies, and sometimes in our closets, so that if one wanted Joel, it required a twenty-minute search. Usually, Mal was sent to find his brother, but after a few months, Mal began to refuse. I was forever finding pocket-sized toys inside the bottom of the grandfather clock, in the felt-lined recesses of the china cabinet, and beneath sofa cushions.

Joel did not make friends easily as he grew older, and this caused me some concern. I understood that only too well; I did not want my son to be as isolated among his peers as I, as a child, had been. Joel sought his identity in music, as time went on. Unlike his brother, whose musical interest and aptitude was solely confined to the piano, Joel took up one instrument then another, (flute, clarinet-my particular favorite) until he settled permanently upon the trumpet. Apparently, he had considerable talent, but I was no judge of musical ability, for I never liked the brash sound of the instrument, though of course Joel never knew that.

When they were away in their schools, I received letters from the three of them, funny, childish letters, endearing letters. Mal implored us to visit. "Please tell Father to motor here THIS WEEKEND." he would write. Or, "You said you would like a letter from me, so here it is. Breakfast is awful here. They don't put raspberries in the oatmeal, so I want to go home. Plus some fellows have stolen Joel's box of cookies."

Corinne's letters arrived more frequently, and were longer. She always remembered my birthday, and her father's.

In this way, the years went by, quickly, it seemed. When they were old enough, the boys were enrolled in the Phillips Academy in Andover Massachusetts,  
and Corinne would attend the Abbot School for girls. Such a distance made most holidays, save Christmas, childless ones. Often in the later years of the 'thirties, I felt that, since they were away at school so much of the time, I scarcely knew my children.


	10. September in the Rain

Chapter 14D

(between pages 275 and 276)

SEPTEMBER IN THE RAIN

"Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion;  
and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement." - George Eliot

Beneath the awning in the garage doorway I stood, watching the relentlessly pouring rain. The wind whipped my hair across my eyes, and my skirt swirled around my knees.

"Well, it's not going to stop." said Malcolm, locking the door behind us.

We stepped onto the gravel path that connected the garage to the house. Wet gravel crunched underfoot as we hurried toward the steps to the kitchen door, the nearest entrance.

"I don't know why we haven't built a cover from here to the house." said Malcolm, as though the suggestion hadn't been made dozens of times before. This was mentioned frequently,  
usually by Mal, but plans were never made to do it.

Malcolm discovered he didn't have the key to the side door, so we had to dash around to the front portico. The front entrance was unlocked, and inside the doors, a table lamp emanated a welcoming glow.

"Is Joel in, tonight?"

"I'm not sure."

No music issued from the parlor, where Joel was usually to be found, if indeed he was home at this hour, but that meant little.

I brushed water out of my eyes.

"I'll tell Minnie that we'll have coffee in the library."

"Fine." said Malcolm, already divesting himself of his wet jacket and tie, as he walked toward the staircase.

It was a blustery evening once the rain ceased, the temperature having dropped into the low forties during the overcast day. It was then late September, and the change in season was exhilarating, lifting my spirits as it always did. I moved through the downstairs rooms, watering the geraniums that grew in pots on windowsills, and systematically checking to be sure that doors and windows were securely closed.

When I reached the front salon, I found Joel at the escritoire, writing letters under a cone of lamplight.

"Pardon me for subjecting your refined ears to the music of the plebs, Mother. I haven't had a minute to change the record."

"Never mind that." I said. "Join us for coffee, if you wish."

"So, you've returned, unscathed, from another evening among the fashionable savages." Joel remarked.

"I suppose so." " I said, laughing.

He smiled, absent-minded, and offered only monosyllabic answers to my inquiries about his day. Finally giving up, I left him to his writing, and the music of Benny Goodman, issuing from the phonograph.

I understood my son's preoccupations. It was not music in which I took an interest, but in novels, I, too, could escape. I escaped into another life-a life full of mystery,  
adventure and happiness, away from the predictability of being mistress of Foxworth Hall, where life seldom changed. But I had a security that allowed me to immerse myself wholeheartedly into my books, knowing I had a place where I belonged. The lack of change in that place was my comfort.

But from where would Joel find his own comfort? He then seemed, at the age of eighteen, to be at loose ends, and I did not know how best to help him find direction.

I went on to the library, and was soon so absorbed by a Mary Borden novel that I did not notice Malcolm's entrance, or hear him, until he had spoken to me twice.

He scanned the title of a book lying on an end table, one of the Civil War novels which had become so popular, over the last few years.

"I don't see why you insist on filling your mind with this nonsense; it just sends you into a sentimental mire." He picked up a Bible, sent to me by John Amos. "And so does this."

"Well, that is my choice to make, is it not? I hardly asked for your opinion. Anyway, the book is Corinne's, in fact. She was reading it this morning, before she left."

"Where is she?"

"I had planned to take her shopping for her new school wardrobe, today, but she flounced off in a huff, after I forbade her to wear lipstick. Makeup on young girls is inappropriate, and I told her so."

Malcolm nodded his approval, and lit his pipe.

"She's gone over to Lucy's, to listen to that ridiculous radio program they've become so fond of. She'll probably stay over until tomorrow." I said, knowing Malcolm would be disappointed, for it was the last weekend before Corinne's return to boarding school.

"Who is this Lucy?"

"The McCarthys' daughter. You know-the little girl who thinks Mal is "swell." Corinne's growing up, Malcolm. You have to expect that she'll prefer spending time with her girl friends." I added.

The telephone rang, and I went back to my book as Malcolm took the call, which turned out to be Mal, phoning from New Haven. When it was my turn to speak, I listened eagerly as he enthusiastically relayed anecdotes of his first week back at Yale. Mal was in mid sentence, speaking rapidly, barely allowing me a chance to get a word in, when the line went dead.

"That was peculiar." I commented, relaying what had happened. "Why doesn't he ring back? I should have thought he would have, by now." I glanced reproachfully at the clock, then the phone, as if the instrument itself was faulty.

Malcolm shrugged.

"These connections are never reliable."

The other lines, used primarily by Malcolm for business, were also out of order. All six of our telephone lines were out of service, in fact, and remained so, through the night.

"I rather envy him being up north now, in the fall. It's so lovely." I mused, remembering the vivid autumn colors, a glory of red, orange and gold as the maples scattered their treasure on the wind. It was the season when I missed New England most. "He wants us to take a ski trip to Vermont next year."

"He seems to be developing an appreciation for the place, for the people, for their forward-thinking outlook. Says he may stay on, after his graduation."

I knew Malcolm couldn't be terribly pleased by that, and neither was I. I wanted my children to stay close to home-what mother doesn't?

"He'll change his mind by then, surely."

"Likely so." said Malcolm, then added thoughtfully, "I might have done the same, if not for Foxworth Hall, and if the business hadn't needed looking after."

"What?"

"I considered it, before leaving New Haven, you know. My father did his best to discourage me. No doubt he thought some girl was my motive for wanting to stay in New England, but that didn't come into it."

"Such a commonplace motive would never be yours." I said in irrision.

I could see that Malcolm was disturbed, as we continued to exchange trivial details about our son, details that only the mother of a recently grown young person cares about, when she must relinquish that son to the indifferent world.

It was, in fact, Mal's third year at Yale, but each September's departure was difficult for me, , especially following the activity of summer.

Summer was the best time for us, as a family, and memories of my children, their laughter and gay banter, brought me comfort during the long, grim years of the 'Forties and 'Fifties.

All three children were home during summers, and Malcolm could sometimes be persuaded to take an August vacation. Most often, he went away alone. This year, however, Malcolm had taken the five of us to Colorado for a week, before continuing on to spend a few days in California, (the part of our vacation most enjoyed by Corinne.)

The Colorado mountains were a recent favorite place of Malcolm's, to hunt. When Mal was twelve, Malcolm had begun taking the boy along on his trips,  
beginning with fox hunting excursions in Virginia. This, according to Malcolm, was an essential masculine equestrian pursuit. Joel had never been invited, nor had he expressed interest in going, which was just another instance in which he disappointed Malcolm.

Remnants of that holiday feeling still lingered in my idle thoughts, and the evening had been pleasant, despite the children's absence. Joel was most often preoccupied by his own solitary pastimes. Corinne wouldn't return to school until the following weekend, and had gained permission to spend her last few days with various friends whose homes had swimming pools, one amenity which Foxworth Hall lacked, and would never have, as long as Malcolm decided such things.

I had spent the afternoon with Rosemary Murphy, a neighbor who shared my interest in gardening. She requested my help in organizing and judging contests in this year's Albemarle county fair. The Murphys extended a dinner invitation, but I'd met Malcolm, as previously planned, in Charlottesville for dinner at a French restaurant which we both favored.

These were the years when many evenings were devoted to social events which Malcolm deemed necessary (and worthy.) Malcolm had, over the last four years, become more involved in local and state politics, and now when we dined out, which was a regular occurrence, it was more often than not at some banquet, or other type of engagement meant to raise funds. Rarely did the two of us have dinner out, alone.

The weather had worsened as we sipped our wine, and by the time we'd finished our meal and were ready to leave, it was quite unsafe to be driving. Yet Malcolm had skillfully, and with care, driven up the narrow, winding roads and into the hills toward home. Strong wind and rain pelted the windshield, and my nervousness increased, as the car climbed the steep, slippery roads in the early darkness. It was a relief to finally reach home.

"I'm beginning to worry about Mal." I said. My mind had never left the abrupt way the call had been cut off. Malcolm looked as though he wanted to say something.

"What is it?" I asked, impatiently. There was a slight hesitation before he spoke. There was something ominous in that brief pause, something he refused to say.

Joel walked into the library, frowning, his eyes fastening on Malcolm.

"Excuse me," he began, avoiding eye contact, "Father, Collins left a message. He wishes to speak to you right away about one of the horses-it's aboutt Pandora. Sorry, Mother."

"I'll deal with that tomorrow." Malcolm said in a dismissive manner.

Malcolm's expression turned to irritation, which deepened as Joel continued to speak, whether from the interruption or from the reason for it, or just because of Joel's apprehension around him, I couldn't tell.

The hostility between Malcolm and Joel had been barely suppressed, for the past few months. Joel wanted to go to a music school in the fall, but naturally, Malcolm cared nothing for Joel's wishes or plans, having his own plans for his sons' futures mapped out.

"Father, would it be all right if I borrow the car, on Saturday?"

"Absolutely not. As I said when you went for your license, if you want to drive the car, you'll have to go out and get a job-something more than that part time work you've been doing. I haven't changed my position, on the matter."

Joel made no answer. He stared morosely out into the rain, as though he was waiting for someone.

"You aren't going out in this weather." I declared, guessing what was in his mind.

"Have you heard about the hurricane?" he asked abruptly, shifting restlessly, still standing in the doorway.

"What hurricane?" I asked, mildly concerned, as I motioned for Joel to come in, which he did with reluctance. He tried to avoid Malcolm as much as possible when Mal was away, but I sensed he was worried.

Malcolm glared in Joel's direction.

"It's only a storm." he said in a tone that left no room for disagreement, and waved the air, his signal that it was to be the end of the discussion.

"It's more than a storm." Joel countered in a somber tone. "It's a hurricane, and it's passing over New England."

I must have looked stricken, for they both stared at me, and Malcolm scowled at Joel, willing him to silence.

Joel rifled through the pages of the Radio Guide nervously, but he didn't move from his place by the French windows.

As if in support of what he'd said,  
the electric system began to fail, due to the storm. The cello concerto on the radio faded, then died, and the overhead lights in their fluted shades dimmed before flickering out altogether, some minutes later.

"Aren't you concerned about Mal? Haven't you heard about this?" Joel persisted.

"We've heard." Malcolm replied tersely. "Mal is fine. We spoke to him half an hour ago."

"You knew this when he called! Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded of Malcolm. Panic rose, the vise of dread clutched at my heart.

Joel stared from one to the other of us warily, and edged toward the door.

"Either stay or go, but stop hovering in doorways." Malcolm snapped, then, his minor irritation gone, he asked, "Will you sit with us?"

"Thank you, no, sir," Joel mumbled. I didn't catch the rest of his sentence before he was gone. Malcolm stared after him, annoyed.

"I don't understand him." he grumbled. "Is our company so distasteful to him that he has to go sneaking off by himself all the time? I've never known a boy with a more reclusive nature."

"Well, Malcolm, you haven't been very agreeable yourself, lately. Whenever he says more than two words to you, you start in criticizing him."

"Joel has an excellent mind and has had a sound upbringing, and I don't see why he is so determined to throw away every advantage given him."

"It is because of his advantages that he can pursue his talents." I said.

"If he had sense, he would develop other talents. Music won't take him very far in life, and it won't support him." Malcolm insisted.

Mal had urged me to talk to Malcolm, but I doubted that I could bring him around to seeing anything from Joel's point of view. Mal had already attempted discussion with his father, and had gotten nowhere.

"I tried, Mother," Mal had told me, "but whenever I say a word in favor of Joel's plans to Father, he comes down on me like a sack of tombstones. He's so determined to pack Joel off to Yale, to four years of them chipping away at his soul, until there is no Joel left, only Foxworth."

Perhaps Mal exaggerated, but there was some truth in what he said. Malcolm was a man who greatly valued appearances, and prized the symbolism represented by his position on the town council, the front pew of our village church, and in the very existence of this imposing house that itself was a monument to generations of superiority. That one of his sons should think otherwise, and not share the same high ambition that had always driven him, was an offense to Malcolm.

"Let Joel fight his own battles," Malcolm would say. "He can come and discuss it with me himself. If he can't face a little straight talk, then I wish him luck with the world."

"Yes, well," I shrugged, and turned back to Malcolm, glaring my recriminations as another clap of thunder seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.

"Olivia," he said slowly, "I've just heard on the radio of a storm which is moving up the Atlantic. Mal didn't want me to mention it; he knew you'd worry needlessly."

"It seems there is a need to worry." I said.

"They expected it to turn, to curve out further over the Atlantic where it wouldn't cause damage, but now there are reports that it has in fact blown the other direction, and is hitting the coast."

I began to twist my rings in apprehension, envisioning devastating losses.

"Where, precisely?"

"Massachusetts...and Connecticut."

"New Haven's not so far away from the coast." I worried. "We've got to call Mal back."

"You won't be able to get a call through." he said. "We'll have to wait until we hear from him."

"What have you heard?"

"I told you."

"You've got to know more than that!"

"He said there have been winds over one hundred miles reported from Boston and... New London."

"My house!"

"Yes." Malcolm was silent for several seconds. "It will, at the very least, sustain a great deal of damage, if not be washed away completely by the high tides. I'm sorry." he said, seeing my expression.

"Don't pretend to be magnanimous, Malcolm," I said with disgust.

Washed away! The words kept reverberating in my mind ominously.

"Mal says he'll drive over and see what's become of it when it is safe to do so." said Malcolm.

I had given Mal a key to the house, although he didn't go to New London often. It had become something of a pied-a-terre for him while he attended Yale,  
although he lived on campus, in a room overlooking busy Chapel Street, where open trolley cars went back and forth until all hours.

"Olivia, Mal will come to no harm. He has the sense not to take unnecessary risks."

"I can't believe you would try to keep this from me. Don't you think I'd read about this in the paper tomorrow morning?"

"Your reaction now is the very reason I did not wish to bring it up. You can do nothing for him, if you work yourself into a hysterical state." he said, his eyebrows knit together in a worried expression.

Later, Mal would describe in horrific detail what he had learned. The waterfront business district in New London caught fire, burning uncontrollably for ten hours. The stately homes along Ocean Beach were leveled by the storm tide, and the Fort Neck section of town was left a twisted ruin.

It was the worst natural disaster in recorded history to befall New York, Rhode Island and Connecticut. Newspapers would carry reports and photographs of destruction on a devastating scale: trees felled, church steeples down and seventy-five-thousand buildings damaged. A school bus full of children was swept off a causeway and into the storm surge. Over six hundred lives were lost; thousands more were injured. No one had been prepared, because there had been no warning of the coming storm. Gusts of one-hundred-twenty miles per hour was recorded at the Watch Hill Lighthouse in Rhode Island, before the weather tower collapsed.

"Light one of the oil lamps, would you?"

I fumbled, looking for the kerosene lamps kept here for just such emergencies. More time elapsed.

"We may as well go up then." he decided.

The mansion felt vast and hollow, and defenseless without electricity. We ascended the left staircase cautiously in the thickening darkness. The lamp threw a dim, inadequate light ahead, as we turned into the south wing corridor. The kerosene fumes made my eyes water. Shadows rose up just out of reach of that glow, and the house was silent, as if we were the only two people left in the tworld. Our steps echoed in the hallway, as we parted ways.

Although I knew she was safe, I wished Corinne was home tonight. I wished I could look in on Joel, a thing I hadn't done since he was small. Of course I could not, but it brought back a wistful longing to turn back the years to a time when the boys were mine-when they were young enough to be my purpose. I remembered many a night when I had slipped into the boys' shared room, hoping not to wake Joel, always a light sleeper. There had been times when I needed not to be alone; I needed to see them. They were so innocent then; they looked as if they could never grow up to be like their father. Even now, I prayed this would be so, that my influence would prove stronger than Malcolm's. Of course it would be. I was stronger than Malcolm; I could handle him-I still felt I could, and my boys were my reasons to keep trying.

I remembered how those silent moments could sometimes restore me, how a sliver of moonlight found its way into the room through an aperture in the draperies. It lay across the floor, and the light encircled us like a benevolent spirit. Mal would mumble in his sleep, then subside once again. I would sit on the end of Mal's bed, and watch them for a long time. Now such was impossible.

Each of us was an island in our separate, draughty rooms, alone in this vast house with concerns that inhabited the dark. I dreaded the hours I must live through before morning-before any news could come about Mal. I lay huddled against the cold night beneath thick blankets. Sweet unconsciousness was not to be mine. I couldn't manage even a light sleep, my ears were too alert to the slightest sound, any stirring, any sudden trouble. My powerlessness, my inability to protect Mal kept me awake and disturbed.

I went out into the corridor; I did not need to see to make my way along it to the rotunda. I knew where the hall runner would end and the wood began, where the floor would creak gently underfoot, the precise placement of a cabinet with an alabaster vase of flowers. I reached out to find the glass-smooth rosewood balustrade. I stood in the disorienting darkness for a full five minutes, trying to let the absolute silence calm me, sending a prayer for Mal into that silence. I couldn't see across the rotunda to the north wing, but it too was quiet. Joel had probably closed his door and the one at the end of the hall.

Finally, I retraced my steps down the hall, and to Malcolm's door.

"I can't sleep." I said.

"For God's sake, sit down! I can't stand your infernal pacing."

Malcolm's rooms were in near darkness, but the double doors to the adjoining sitting-room were open, and there Malcolm sat, in one of his brown leather chairs. The kerosene lamp burned low, offering but a thin illumination in that wood-paneled room of dark furnishings, plush carpet and fireplace.

The storm raged. The power and phone lines were down through the night; windows rattled in their casements. The house felt inadequate against nature's fury. A branch struck one of the windows and I jumped.

"You should have a drink." Malcolm said with celerity, as if he'd been waiting for an excuse. He kept a decanter on a tray on the low table next to his chair, and from it, he poured a tumbler of Scotch.

"No, I don't want one." I said into the blackness.

I lay on the sofa and tried to rest. Across the room, Malcolm poured himself a second drink. Not once did we put into words our fear that we might not see Mal again, that he might not survive the disaster of the hurricane.

We should have spoken of Mal before our memories of him were altered by loss. Later, when we should have shared those memories, we were unable to do so. We could not have known how close we were to losing our stubborn, talented, humorous first-born. This was merely a warning, merely a preview for the blow that would befall us, the very next year.

We should have laughingly recalled times when Mal had tried our patience, vexing us by asserting his independence. From perhaps his tenth year on, he had frequently and dilatorily provoked Malcolm, and it became harder to threaten Mal into behaving.

"When your father hears of this-" was often all I needed to say to restore good behavior. The trailing threat was usually enough to make the children behave,  
particularly Joel, and Corinne was corrigible mainly because she couldn't stand confrontation, or to have anyone displeased with her. But Mal was strong-willed, and too much like his parents for threats to sway him.

No, it had not all been an easy road with Mal. When he was seventeen, he began to spend time with a group of friends Malcolm and I didn't approve of. Once, Mal was brought home in the middle of the night by some of these unsavory friends. He was too drunk even to walk-that was the explanation I was given.

Malcolm, furious, ordered Mal to leave, and not come home until he was sober, and could conduct himself properly.

Malcolm himself rarely imbibes-something for which I am eternally grateful, as when he does, he becomes belligerent, though to be fair, he has never struck me in anger, just as he has seldom embraced me in unrepressed warmth. He is-at the core-too restrained for either extreme.

Mal stayed away for three days that time-three days during which I did not speak to Malcolm.

"He's got to learn responsibility, Olivia." Malcolm had said. He kept trying to justify his reactions, which I thought unreasonably harsh. His explanations were met only with my withering looks and cold silences.

"You coddle them too much. It's different with boys; you never had brothers, so you don't understand. This is the boy I'm supposed to leave everything to,  
and you expect me to let him destroy himself? Well? Don't look at me that way! He should be ashamed to let his mother see him, in such bad shape. Damn it, SAY something! I will not allow a son of mine to be a delinquent."

There were many things I'd wanted to say, but if I had spoken, it would have escalated into another argument, and we argued often enough. Joel had been home from school then, and it upset him to hear us quarreling. Over time, Mal had grown impervious to our raised voices. He was always the stronger of the two of them; he had inherited more of Malcolm's temperament than had Joel. Mal would talk back to Malcolm-a thing Joel would not have dared try.

Mal had thought it great fun to make jokes at our expense-his serious, old-fashioned parents. I remember the merriment in his eyes as he mimicked an argument between Malcolm and myself, parroting my accent perfectly, (for the more agitated I become, the more pronounced it is) and affecting Malcolm's caustic responses and precise mannerisms and expressions.

"I would hope," said Malcolm, when we'd come upon this scene unexpectedly one day, "that you aspire to something more worthwhile in life than the theatre."

The sneering rebuke deflated Mal's spirits only temporarily; he well knew Malcolm's opinion of actors, musicians and "artistic types". When Malcolm walked away, he resumed where he'd left off, and that was how he coped with outbursts; he simply waited for them to pass, feigning indifference. It was what I often did. Not so for Joel, who cowered, and in so doing incurred more wrath from his father. Even away at school, Joel seemed to be the victim of every bully. Mal, on the other hand, was the instigator of the mischief he became embroiled in. I suspect we didn't even hear about half of these incidents.

During the first few years when Mal went away to school, he was sent home several times, for unruly behavior. Naturally, Malcolm was full of I-told-you-so remarks, since it was I who insisted they be sent to boarding schools.

Malcolm and I had clashes of our own to distract us, and they increased as time went on. They were often about the children, particularly about Corinne. We could not seem to agree on anything, concerning the children. When they were all away at school the house was lonely, but we were far more amicable.

Of course, it was only later that I realized some of the damage we had done, subjecting them to the strained atmosphere in which we existed. Frequent altercations may have been necessary for us, but surely it had not been good for children. That was easy enough to see, just by observing them.

The next morning I woke, cold and with shoulders stiff, in the same position in which I'd fallen asleep. I went to my own room to dress, and hurried downstairs, hoping news of Mal had come.

Joel was in the kitchen, looking sullen as he usually did before noon, and still in his dressing-gown. He was eating dry cereal mixed with yogurt, rather than milk, a combination Garland had introduced to the boys. I can remember him teasing Mal about the orderly way in which he cleaned his plate, eating one item at a time, finishing everything on his plate before taking a drink-just as I did, while Garland's glass would be refilled twice each meal.

"Where is your father?"

"I haven't seen him, but he's been here. There's coffee. There's one cup left, if you'd like it."

As coffee was poured, there was a discreet knock at the side entrance, just off the small passage to the kitchen. Malcolm disliked the arrival of visitors before eleven o'clock in the morning. In truth, I didn't much care for it either.

"That will be Lyman, no doubt." I said, and went to let him in.

"Hello, madam." said Lyman, in his affected, half-mocking way.

"How did you know I'd be at home?" asked Joel, offering Lyman a cigarette. Lyman Bromley had been Joel's friend for several years, though they had attended different schools.

"You are always at home in the mornings. You are far too lazy to be any other place."

They left the kitchen, and I drank my coffee in solitude, then went upstairs an hour later. The day was going to pass slowly, and waiting for the telephone to ring would not make it happen or insure that the news was good.

In the spare bedroom, I continued sorting through Corinne's baby clothes, which were to be passed along to Millicent's daughter Caroline, whose first baby had been born in August. Some time later, I heard voices, and Millicent appeared in the doorway, directed here by Joel. Much to my surprise, she had the infant with her.

"My goodness! You could open your own shop."

"There's more here than I realized. Some of these were nearly brand new. Corinne grew out of them before wearing them." I said.

"Am I too early?"

"No, of course not. Sit down... anywhere."

She put her straw beach bag and the baby down in the center of the bed.

"I like this room." said Millicent.

I had redecorated, since the days when Garland had lived here. Now it had cream curtains, eighteenth-century engravings of landscapes, a walnut bureau, a tall mirror and a small Louis XV writing desk.

"Corinne says it's too muted, but what can one expect, from a thirteen-year-old? Anything lacking rosettes and frills is considered boring, by her." I smiled.

"How is she?"

"Oh," I sighed. "she's been moody and waspish, lately, and that's so unlike her."

"It's the age." said Millicent.

"She seems to want to grow up so quickly! She's taken to wearing make-up, behind my back. I don't know where the years have gone. Last week I walked into her room and found a box full of toys-a nurse doll, a toy sewing machine, a doll buggy. She wanted it all taken up to the attic."

As if on cue, from the corridor, I heard the voices of Corinne and her friend.

"Have you been fraternizing with the Indians?" I asked, as Corinne and Lucy sauntered in. Lucy giggled. "Did your mother know you went out of the house with all that paint on your face, Lucille?"

"Oh, Mama." groaned Corinne.

"If I'm not mistaken, that is Corinne's yellow sweater."

"You said it would be okay to borrow it." Lucy said to Corinne.

"That's fine." I said.

They went over to the bed and cooed over the baby.

"Can I hold her, Mrs. Hanscomb?" asked Corinne. "Can we take her to my room?"

Millicent nodded.

"Just for a few minutes." I instructed.

"I know all about babies," boasted Corinne to Lucy, as they exited. "Trudy's sister has one."

"I have news, madam." said Malcolm, appearing in the doorway shortly after. He nodded to Millicent.

"Ah, you've seen Lyman."

"That young man is a thoroughly objectionable person, but I did not come to discuss him."

"Have you heard from Mal, then?"

"He called a few minutes ago, and spoke to Joel. Mal couldn't stay on the line for long-you know what these long distance calls are, but he promised to telephone again, tomorrow."

It was not Malcolm, but Millicent who embraced me, sharing my relief at the news.

"I've never heard anything like it, Mother." said Mal, the next day, still sounding shaken by what he'd seen. "The wind sounded like... like a high-pitched scream."

"Mal," I began, clutching the telephone receiver tightly to my ear. "Mal, maybe... never mind."

I wanted to ask him to book passage on the next train, to come home immediately, but that would be an unreasonable, pointless request. There was no imminent danger now.


	11. Alicia's Revelation

Chapter 16 insert

(between pages 307 and 308)

ALICIA'S REVELATION

"It's time for you to answer now," the Queen said, looking at her watch: "open your mouth a little wider when you speak, and always say "your Majesty.""  
\- Through the Looking Glass

"There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known." Luke 12:2

"Mrs. Malcolm Neal Foxworth

5 Mulberry Circle;  
North Garden, VA.

February 17, 1939

Dear Olivia,

I suppose you will be surprised to receive this correspondence, and most likely will not be pleased to hear from me. I read in the newspaper about Mal's accident, and I am heartbroken for you. I am truly sorry for your incredible loss. As a mother myself, I understand that your sorrow and loss runs deeper than that of anyone else, for he was your first-born, and part of you, in a way no one but you experienced.

I cried when I saw the article, and I could think of nothing but poor Mal, and you, for weeks after. I remember how bright and sweet he was, Olivia. Please accept my sincere condolences.

Olivia, I would not think to disturb you at a time like this, except that my time is limited. I would like very much to see you, if you would agree, and if you can arrange a day trip to Richmond, and come to my home. I regret to impose on you the trouble of traveling, but I am unable to travel.

I am unwell, and have been, for some months now. I rarely feel strong enough to leave my house.

Aside from this reason, I also assume you would not wish me to come to Foxworth Hall, and I would not want to take the chance of running into Malcolm.

What I have to say, I must say to you alone, Olivia. It is a private matter which I will not write down in this letter; it is of the utmost importance that I tell you, in person. It does concern your family.

Please write to me as soon as you can, and let me know if you can visit. I would appreciate it more than you can know, for I have lived with guilt for years, about this.

Alicia"

Only a few months after Mal's accident, and before we lost Joel, I received the letter from Alicia. The outside of the envelope bore a return address with the name of Althea Corday, the name of Alicia's older sister. I assumed this precaution had been taken so that if Malcolm picked up our mail, he would not recognize that the letter was from Alicia.

Her letter had been written on my birthday, I saw, but it arrived a week later, on what would have been Mal's twenty-second birthday. It was a difficult day for me, but I doubted Alicia knew the significance of her timing.

I read the letter through twice, wincing at her expression of sympathy. I had no doubt that her kindness was genuine, but I was too numb with grief to care, or to be curious about what she wanted to tell me. Why couldn't she simply commit it to paper?

What could be so secret, and why was a trip to Richmond necessary? It would not be easy. I don't drive, and would have to take a train, or hire someone to drive me there and back.

I didn't give it any further consideration, and I did not reply to her letter.

What could she possibly have to impart to me that would matter so much? Was she going to make more confessions about Malcolm, and her part in what had happened? If so, I had no desire to hear it. I convinced myself that was the answer, and I folded the letter back into its envelope to file away in a locked drawer of the desk in my bedroom. I don't know why I saved it, but I came across it again, a month after we got the news about Joel.

Malcolm had become increasingly withdrawn and depressed, and I was growing concerned about him. I knew it was a long shot, but I wondered if Alicia might indeed know something which might prove useful to me. So I dispatched a reply to inform her that I would see her in two weeks' time.

When I announced to Malcolm that I would be going to Richmond for the day, to see Frances Hudson, he barely acknowledged it. That made the lie easier to tell, and I was glad he didn't ask questions then, or upon my return home. He only nodded and asked when I expected to be home. In fact, I did later consider stopping by the Hudsons' house, but that visit never happened because of my state of mind when I left Alicia.

I arrived at the house to which I was directed, outside of Richmond, at noon on a Friday. Alicia herself answered the door, and I quickly discerned that she employed no servants. No one else was home, apparently, so we were able to speak freely.

"Please come in, Olivia."

I stepped forward to speak to this apparition from my past, but no words came. What did one say after so much time, and the peculiar circumstances of our history?

I was spared the necessity of speaking. Alicia invited me into her small sitting room, and then went to the kitchen to make tea.

I noted her appearance, not much changed from the young woman I remembered. Creamy pearl-drops winked from her small ears; her dress was of navy organdy and ivory geometric print, with slim skirt and a flattering bateau neckline, fastened on the shoulder with shell buttons.

While waiting for Alicia's return, I looked about. I could see no pictures or mementos, nothing to reveal clues to Alicia's life, and certainly nothing to offer a clue as to why a woman possessed of three million dollars should live in such an economical way. The room, and the rest of the house-from what I could tell-was modest, but comfortable. I recognized furnishings which had been hers and Garland's at Foxworth Hall. The pieces were elegant, and perhaps too large to be comfortably situated in these rooms, but I understood why she wished to keep them.

The interior of the sitting room was dim, lit only by one small lamp. Alicia, I remember, had so admired the Tiffany lamp I'd inherited from my father, that Garland had brought one, of a similar design, for his wife, acquired during one of his business trips to New York City. Its colorful tinted glass cast reflections on the walls; the familiar light and objects revived vivid memories of bygone times, when Alicia shared her confidences with me, thinking she could trust me and that we were friends. On many an occasion, we had sat in the glow of this same lamp, occupied with needlework, and watching our boys play across the room. Now mine were gone, I had only their father left to think of, and the interest I once had in knowing all of Alicia's secrets was gone.

I waited, feeling ill at ease and wondering why I'd come to Richmond at all.

"You take sugar in your tea, don't you, Olivia?" asked Alicia, placing a silver tray nearby on a low table. I was so lost in reminiscence that I hadn't heard her return.

"Yes. How interesting it is, the minor details one remembers, after so many years." I mused, accepting the proffered cup.

She nodded, settling gracefully into the chair across from me, and sipped her tea. I noticed the slight tremble of her hands.

"Thank you for coming all this way, Olivia." she smiled. "You're looking well, much like I remember you."

"It has not been so many years." I replied, perhaps a bit too harshly.

"For me, it has been. The years have taken their toll. I am growing old, so much more quickly than I ever dreamed of, then. Youth and beauty are deceptions. They make you feel powerful and free, but the truth is that they capture you in their grasp, and the power you feel is the power they hold over you. But as you age, and beauty fades, you begin to feel caged. I was sitting alone, engulfed in my own thoughts, when I began to hear the sound of my days coming to an end." she stopped, drifting into thought.

How morbid! Her strange talk reinforced my sense of unease, but I waited for her to continue.

She abruptly straightened her posture, and sat forward, focusing her dark blue eyes on me.

"Don't you sometimes feel that way, Olivia? Oh, never mind. I am sorry; I see I have disturbed you. Tell me, how are things at Foxworth Hall? How is Joel? And your daughter? I don't even know what her name is."

She laughed, and I saw traces of the Alicia I'd known.

"Malcolm named her Corinne."

"Corinne." she echoed, a shadow passing over her face at the mention of that name. But she shrugged it off.

"Corinne Clarisse. She is full of energy and life, as any young girl should be. She attends boarding school." I elaborated on the details of Corinne's accomplishments and her life.

"But since the time I received your initial letter, we have... we have lost Joel, as well, to an accident. That was just a few weeks ago. In March."

I was overcome with emotion for a minute, and couldn't speak. Alicia waited quietly until I composed myself, and went on.

"Malcolm has gone into a sort of decline, since we received the news about Joel. He talks of hiring detectives to find him; he doesn't accept that Joel is gone. It was bad before, after Mal's accident, but now it is worse. It's as if his life, too, has stopped. He is only a shell of himself, now. All of his enthusiasm is gone, it seems. He used to tell me about his work every evening, and now he just comes home and shuts himself in the library. He has no interest, anymore, in going on the hunting trips which he once enjoyed so. His newspapers pile up unread, sometimes for a week at a time. I am afraid for him, and I don't know how to help him."

I was amazed at my own candor. I hadn't planned to say all of this, but it was a relief to express my worries.

"I am sorry to hear he is suffering so. I always thought he loved the boys more than he knew. I always thought he didn't know how to say that to them, and maybe not even to you," then she quickly added, "but I wouldn't presume to know that. Please don't be upset with me, Olivia."

"What was it you wanted to talk about?" I asked sharply, wanting to change the subject. Even now, I couldn't stand listening to her try to make excuses for Malcolm, or trying to defend him, even if what she said was true. I couldn't stand the idea that she would have insight into Malcolm's mind and personality.

"This isn't easy. I thought never to tell anyone, but the present circumstances of my life have changed my mind. I won't go into specifics, for it isn't important, now." She took a deep breath and put aside her cup. "Olivia, I have done you a great injustice."

Why, after so many years, should she say this?

I waited, anxiously, her words leading me back into a past I wanted to forget. The truth was that I was not happy to see Alicia. A part of me still resented her for what had happened between her and Malcolm, although I hadn't thought of it, or of her, in years.

Seeing her again brought it all back, as if it had been only yesterday that I'd forced her to confess her story to me. I could still see her sitting there, in the Swan Room, looking defenseless, her eyes cast down so as to avoid my eyes, as she told me the graphic details which-intuition should have warned her-I, as Malcolm's wife, should not have been told. In my memory, I could still hear her voice filled with despair, as she pleaded for help and understanding.

I had understood, to some degre; I understood that Malcolm cared for Alicia even less than I did. He had violated her, and left her to suffer the consequences-left her at the mercy of, and in the hands of his betrayed wife. I understood that Alicia had been a victim, but I couldn't find much sympathy for her, not then, for I had been hurt much more than she, and no one had cared. Those were my feelings, and irrational though they might be, it was difficult to let them go.

It occurred to me, only after it was too late, that I'd completely overlooked options other than what I'd done. Either way, I had to pay for Malcolm's transgression. It would have been worth the loss of some of my own money to get rid of the proof of Malcolm's unfaithfulness to me. I could have given Alicia money enough to take Christopher and leave Foxworth Hall. Would she have taken it? Surely, she hadn't wanted to have Malcolm's baby.

I could have used my knowledge of certain herbs-plants that grew in my kitchen garden-to cause her to miscarry. In the right amounts, and with the proper frequency... What could Malcolm have done? Nothing, of course. But it was all irrelevant, now.

She had given us a beautiful daughter, a daughter I loved well. It wasn't Alicia's fault it would all go wrong. It was not Alicia's fault Corinne would turn out to be spineless, weak, a disgrace to the Foxworth name.

Neither had it been Alicia's fault that my husband couldn't be faithful.

Long before Alicia came to Foxworth Hall, I knew that Malcolm had a sickness in his mind, that in some way-I dared not contemplate-his mother had hurt him, ruined him. Garland had contributed to whatever had damaged Malcolm, too,  
but perhaps only by neglect. The impact of that neglect was deeply felt, because Garland had then been Malcolm's only parent. Garland should have realized the extent of the damage he had done. But it had been easy to forget that when I knew Garland; he was a different man, by then, and I had been young enough not to question my own impressions of him. But there had to be some truth in what Malcolm said, a valid reason for the resentment Malcolm harbored against his father.

Thoughts of Garland returned me to the present, and Alicia. With the exception of a few lines in her face, she hadn't changed very much, though her complexion was a bit sallow, and she was too thin.

The passage of time had been relatively kind to each of us, I reflected, remembering my own mirrored image.

Why was I classing myself with Alicia, anyway? We were not alike, and never had been, and I had left my insecurities behind long ago-or so I believed.

Yes, Alicia was still beautiful, but beauty did not guarantee happiness and freedom. Perhaps it even brought more problems than joy to its possessor. Was that what she'd been trying to say?

A sudden coldness filled me. What would be Malcolm's reaction, if he ever saw Alicia again? It was unreasonable, but I felt threatened merely by the thought of their meeting, although I assumed Alicia must still despise him.

Surely, she could still capture the attention of any man she cared to attract. But Alicia's motives and plans didn't concern me; it was Malcolm's that I questioned. I didn't want Malcolm thinking of her. The very idea was intolerable! I was glad I'd agreed to come here, rather than have Alicia visit the Hall.

I wondered if life had taken away Alicia's naive outlook. Had it made her stronger, colder, or had it been kind to her? Did she often think of and miss Garland, after all this time?

Garland's death had left a void in our family, if not for me, then certainly for the children. Garland had naturally spent more time with Christopher, but after Garland died, my boys had missed him, tremendously. Joel, especially, had mourned the loss of his grandfather, since Joel had even less of Malcolm's attention and approval than his brother.

Despite my mixed feelings about Alicia, now that I'd seen her, I was curious about her life. I wondered how she could even care enough to ask about Malcolm. Didn't she hate him for what he had done to her?

But I thought I understood. She had always been gullible. She had a childlike way of forgiving. For Alicia, the unpleasantness had been short-lived. It had not begun on the first day of her marriage, shattering her cherished dreams of what love would be. Her first day-all of her days-had been full of sweetness and flowers, I was sure-"moon and June nonsense," Malcolm would call it, which was how he always referred to the romance novels Corinne read.

Alicia had suffered, I didn't doubt that, for I knew what it was to live with the physical and emotional pain of bringing into being the child of an abusive man, a man who showed no remorse for the unhappiness he caused. Still, it was different for Alicia, I rationalized. Two husbands had loved her; she flourished in the sunny center of the garden, while I only visited it, now and then.

I lived with the utter hopelessness of knowing that the only man I would ever have, found me to be a disappointment. Although Malcolm's actions later belied his words, those words were no less crushing, and painful to recall.

Alicia had never been cut to the core, so cruelly. She had known love and tenderness in ways I never would know. Even with the small progress I'd made in my efforts to salvage and make the best of my marriage, I never felt as though our days were like "one long melody," as Alicia had described her relationship with Garland. A melody? Mine had been a cacophonous nightmare of discordant notes, from the beginning, once I realized the seeds of my future had been planted even before I first walked into Foxworth Hall. I'd had no choice but to gather my strength and tend them, and try to forget that I'd ever wanted anything more-try to forget that by entering the Swan Room that first day, I'd revived memories of Malcolm's mother.

But forgetting wasn't easy, and if I couldn't purge my memory of such an atrocity, how much harder must it be, for Alicia? She didn't have an ounce of affection for Malcolm, to counteract the humiliations and abuse she suffered.

Perhaps that is why Alicia did what she confessed to have done; perhaps it was a form of revenge for the unfairness of long ago.

"Olivia, what I'm going to tell you may anger you. It will shock you, and you will probably not understand why I did it. You won't understand, because you have always been strong. I am not strong, and I never was. Not even for my own children could I be strong. I am ashamed, and I feel so much guilt that I can't bear it any longer. My family knows nothing of this. They would hate me, if they knew."

"You may make sense to yourself, but it's gibberish to me, Alicia. If I am to understand, you must be direct."

"It's just that it is so hard to say." she bowed her head for a moment, then went on, not meeting my eyes.

"Olivia, I have done myself an injustice as well, but at the time, I believed I had no other choice. I was so angry at Malcolm. I was so afraid of him, too. I believed him when he said he would turn Christopher and me out, without a penny. That morning when I confessed to him that I was pregnant, he called me a... a whore. He said I'd been irresponsible, that I was not worthy to be a Foxworth, and more that I can't remember now. He called me a tramp. I hated him, Olivia. I wanted him to suffer, because I had suffered! I wanted him to suffer more than I had. Olivia-"

There was a long pause when her frantic speech stopped, and before she whispered her next words.

"What? What did you say?" I asked, forcing her to repeat what I thought I surely had incorrectly heard. I put my tea cup down into the saucer with a loud clatter.

"I said that Corinne is not Malcolm's child. She is... she is Garland's."

For a moment, I was stunned and speechless.

"G-Garland's? Garland's?" I stammered.

My mind worked rapidly to calculate, to remember the details of that time. It was certainly possible, I realized. Why had I never before thought of the possibility? Garland had died in April. Corinne had been born in December, and there was no indication that she had been born prematurely.

I felt ecstatic and angry, simultaneously, but over all, I felt relieved. Somehow, though Malcolm's infidelity was still an indisputable fact, the severity of my humiliation lessened, with this new knowledge.

It had hurt so much to know another woman had given Malcolm the daughter he'd wanted, and loved so boundlessly. But she hadn't been his, after all. Corinne wasn't his daughter! I was elated.

"Why didn't you tell me this, before? It would have meant so much to me to know it. Do you realize what that whole debacle did to me?"

With the incipient stage of shock abated, my anger returned in full force. I was almost screaming at her, as I shot out my questions.

"Alicia, have you no sense of decency, whatsoever? Have you no consideration for my feelings? Have you no morals? How could you let me believe you carried my husband's baby? And how could you hoist off your responsibility onto us? How could you abandon the child of a man you claim to have loved, so deeply? How could you look into my face and lie, as you did, saying the child was Malcolm's, my husband's? You are the most deceitful, despicable human being! This is unforgivable!"

When I looked at her again, she had a mad glint in her eyes. It was a frightening look which I recognized; it was the same look she'd often had during the months when she'd been sequestered in the north wing.

"I hate him, Olivia. I hate that man you call your husband. You say the words with such misplaced pride! How can you feel anything but loathing for him?"

So, revenge was her reason for revealing this, now, expecting me to carry the truth-if truth it was-back to Malcolm.

"And I hated you, all those months I was locked up." she intoned.

There was such fury in her voice! It sent chills through me, and I decided it would be best to depart, as soon as I could.

"I think you've said quite enough!" I managed.

"I'm sorry, Olivia." she blurted, flinching when she saw my enraged expression.

"Don't write to me, or try in any way to contact me, again. You have caused enough damage. I am not here to ease your conscience, Alicia. No one is responsible for your bad choices but yourself."

I took up my handbag from the end table, and rose to leave.

She followed me, still pleading for my forgiveness, asking me to listen, but I walked swiftly away, determined not to care and not to hear her voice. When I reached her front door, I turned one last time to fling an insult I couldn't-in the end-bring myself to say.

"Alicia, all I can think is that, perhaps, Malcolm was correct in his assessment of you, and what you are."

That evening, full of nervous energy that I hoped to work off, I dismissed the cook, and made dinner. As I worked, I thought over what Alicia had said, and my impressions of the visit.

I did not know, of course, that Alicia was terminally ill, and that when I saw her, she had only two months left to live.

Perhaps Alicia had no logical reasons for what she had done, I concluded. Perhaps she had always been insane. Garland's death had irrevocably changed her. I believed what she confessed to be true, but I didn't begin to understand her twisted logic, and reasons for doing it.

I did not excuse Malcolm's behavior in this matter, but I'd had years to mull over the whole sordid business in my mind. My conclusions about Alicia were quite different, less forgiving than those I'd drawn, a decade earlier. What happened with Malcolm was partially Alicia's own fault. Even if she hadn't encouraged his attention, she'd been given ample warnings of what would happen, yet she stayed on at Foxworth Hall.

She told me that Malcolm had been coming to her room off and on for about a month! What kind of fool lets that continue for a month?

She claimed Malcolm threatened to hurt Christopher. Shouldn't that qualify as incentive enough to leave, immediately, no matter how difficult leaving may have been? Alicia did have family in Richmond she could have gone to, so there was no good excuse for her to remain at Foxworth, allowing herself to be victimized. It happened because she refused to take responsibility, and act like an adult.

At the very least, why didn't she move out of the Swan Room? Why didn't she tell me about it the first time Malcolm came to her room? How long would she have let it continue, and why did she only speak up when she discovered she was pregnant?

It seems clear to me that the money she stood to inherit after Garland's death was more important to Alicia than her own and her child's safety.

Furthermore, Alicia did not have to agree to the admittedly peculiar plan I invented. If, as Alicia claimed, she truly was afraid that Malcolm might harm Christopher, did it make sense for her to leave the child, for months, in our care? Being afraid of Malcolm was a poor excuse, and I no longer believed it. I could not find sympathy for her, because she didn't do anything to try to prevent or stop what happened.

I was glad to know the truth at last, however. I loved Corinne as my own daughter, but now I could love her more, perhaps. And in a few years when she betrayed us, I could, with a clearer conscience, withhold that love.

Since the weather was just turning pleasantly warm, we decided to eat outside, dispensing with our usual mealtime formality. It would be another quiet evening, and for once, I didn't mind this. Corinne would have pressed me for details about my trip. Fortunately, her summer break from school wouldn't begin for several weeks, so she wasn't at home. Malcolm seemed satisfied with my vague answers, and didn't question me further, when his few attempts at conversation fell upon deaf ears, and brought no response.

Malcolm quite enjoyed dinner, but I ate mechanically, not tasting any of the chicken fricassee I had prepared in the same absent-minded state I brought to the table. I was too preoccupied to notice anything around me.

I wanted only to blend, unobtrusively, into the descending twilight, and enjoy the serene view from the east patio. Long after Malcolm had gone into the house, and until the night chill restored some sense of reality to me, I remained on the patio, wondering how I would deal with such an enormous secret.

Alicia's revelation left me in a daze, absorbed in my own thoughts for days afterward.

I decided that I would never tell Malcolm. In days past, I would have relished delivering news of such magnitude. I would have loved to see his shocked expression, thinking he deserved whatever personal pain resulted.

Perhaps he had deserved that once, but not now. He had lost so much when we lost Mal and Joel, and he was already a tormented man. I couldn't add to the weight of his torment. Like myself, Malcolm was alone in the world. We had no descendants, only Alicia's children, but I could not tell him so.

I didn't even share the secret with John Amos, and indeed, I didn't reveal it to Malcolm, until twenty years had passed.


	12. Shadows Close In

Chapter 17 insert

(page 342)

SHADOWS CLOSE IN

"She had lost a son, perhaps, some love-or perhaps not really love, only some illusion. Ah! Love... Why should any spirit yearn, why should any body, full of strength and joy, wither slowly away for want of love?" - The Dark Flower

Malcolm and I returned to the Claridge quite late. I was reluctant to see the end of a happy day we'd shared as a family. I wondered where Malcolm's thoughts took him in the companionable silence, as he unlocked the door to our suite and followed me inside.

"We missed our curfew." he joked. "It looks like our chaperones gave up on us, too."

No light came from beneath Corinne's or Christopher's doors. They were resting, after their graduation ceremonies.

Malcolm went into the adjoining room, in search of a glass.

"Well, I know you'd have preferred it if Corinne had gone with us, but I'm glad we went out, anyway." I said, when Malcolm returned. "I must say, it made me feel my age. Young people are all so... beautiful. Even the unlovely ones seem beautiful."

Malcolm settled into a chair.

"What makes me uneasy-when I think about it-is the thought that, if I live as long as my father, I will have only ten years left."

It had never occured to me to wonder what he thought about growing older; he had just passed his fifty-first birthday, in March.

"You, Malcolm, will live to a very advanced age, I am sure. My grandmother would have said it's because Heaven is ambivalent about letting certain people in."

"I wonder what John Amos would say about that. Some of his theories seem just as far-fetched. Even you," he added when he saw my frown, "have to admit that."

I began to brush out my hair, experiencing a pang of dismay when I saw the strands that came away in the bristles of my hairbrush. It was certainly thinning. My hair, of auburn, just escaping red, was now tinged with gray. My eyes were not remarkable. My features, though fairly regular, had no claim to beauty. So little distinction was there in my personal appearance, that, I supposed, a passer-by would not spare me a second glance. I would not suffer the crisis of lost confidence that besets many women when their looks begin to fade.

I retreated to the other side of the room, and stepped out of my dress, picked up my nightdress, and walked into the bathroom where I removed my slip and turned on the shower. I was tired, but I could not sleep unless I had a bath, and we would be too rushed in the morning. Feeling a bit revived afterward,  
I smoothed lotion into my skin, and gathering a jar of cold cream and hairpins, began packing away everything I would not need in the morning. Only then did I get into bed and pick up a book.

"I've been thinking, Olivia," said Malcolm, "we should do some traveling."

He had often spoken of our taking trips abroad to various places, had promised it, but somehow, it never happened.

"I thought, in September, if Corinne hasn't... has she decided about a college?"

"I've told you. Bryn Mawr, she says."

"But she may change her mind." he said. I, too, hoped Corinne's choice would be something other, but not for the same reasons.

I laid my book aside and took off my reading glasses.

"The world is changing, in spite of the fact that you and I don't like the changes. The boys would have wanted separate lives. Corinne will want a life of her own, as well."

"You don't have to tell me again."

"Well, if she chooses Bryn Mawr, at least she won't be so far from home." I said, consoling myself with that.

He resumed talk of vacations.

"Once the kids are back in school, we could get away."

"Yes," I replied, not liking the lack of enthusiasm in my response. "We should do that."

"Where do you think you'd like to go? Do you have a preference?"

"Oh. Bermuda." I answered. The thought of a rented house with a private beach appealed.

Restlessly, I walked to the window and parted the curtains to look out at the lights of Atlantic City below. Brassy swing music could faintly be heard,  
and the lateness of the hour hadn't slowed the bustle of high-spirited tourists as they walked along.

"You look like a thundercloud. What's it about?"

"I can't say, Malcolm."

"I thought the plan would meet with your approval. You always say how depressing September is." He was irritated that his gesture at consideration went unappreciated. "You shouldn't stand there, brooding."

I suppose I had been brooding. Seeing Christopher accept his diploma had stirred up feelings which had grown manageably numb to casual prodding, to the random comment or thought. But today I had been extremely happy, and now happiness had given way to its opposite extreme. With a flash of anger, I gestured toward the window.

"I can't see any of that anymore; it's all ugly and dead to me-as dead as I feel. Nothing is good in life, anymore. A vacation won't change that."

"You're thinking of Mal and Joel." he said quietly.

"Yes. It's impossible not to." I said, thinking of the tour of the Yale campus Christopher had given us, though of course we had seen everything before, with Mal. "And it would have been Joel's year to graduate-if he'd finished college."

"Last year. Try not to think about it, Olivia. We can't know what might have happened."

I turned away from the window, letting the draperies fall back into place.

"It was a foolhardy course for Joel to take-going to Europe." said Malcolm.

I thought of Joel's upbeat letters, full of interesting descriptions of the people he met, of the churches he saw. He had written about visiting Munich,  
and of Switzerland, then taking a boat on to Italy. I remembered the closing lines from one of his last letters home.

"Am enjoying the tour, but miss you very much. If you can get Father to take a trip this summer, you would enjoy seeing Venice. I can show you around. Will write to him about it in March, in enough time for him to plan." And then the post script I could not forget: "Does he read my letters?"

Joel had always had a keen interest in other cultures and countries, while Mal's more solid plan was to stay near home, and follow in his father's footsteps-a job for which Mal was well equipped. In the end, the child I'd always thought more fragile than the others, Joel, had been unafraid to go out into the world.

But I knew what Malcolm meant. The irony was that it had been an accident of nature which had stolen Joel from us, not the war in Europe. If Mal and Joel had lived, we might have lost one or both of them; they might have been casualties of America's participation in this terrible war. Because Christopher was going into medical school, he had been deferred from joining the Armed Services.

"Is this what you want, to force us to talk about what will only be upsetting? I don't see that there's any point in it."

"Whether we talk or don't talk, it will be upsetting. I don't know what you expect of me or of yourself, but this won't simply fade away; in three years,  
it hasn't. That is the point, Malcolm."

He was angry that I'd broken our pact of silence, that I'd been indiscreet enough to break our habit of maintaining surface cordiality. Sometimes I longed to speak freely, to extend kindness to my fellow sufferer, to end this pointless blame we each had for the other, a blame that masked self-blame. I wanted to turn to him and say: "Can't we find a way to call a truce? I grow weary of the debate that has always been our way of life. We have lost our children.  
We have lost the one you hadn't learned to appreciate, and the one you did, and had high hopes for. We probably argued when they were born and we were arguing when Mal died, and I can't bear it any longer!" ... But I could not say any of that aloud.

"Just when I think I'm going to be all right again, something reminds me of one of them, and it's as if it is that day, and we've just seen Corinne running up the driveway. I keep hearing her words." I took a breath, trying to quell the sobs that were building. "I told him to... to be careful! I called to him to be careful, but he didn't... he didn't... hear me."

"Olivia, please!"

"Sometimes, I forget, and I make a mental note to write Joel and tell him something. Or I think: I will have to call Mal, since he's not much of a writer of letters. Then I remember that I can't. There's no one to write to or call. They aren't just away at school. There's a part of me that can't accept that they are truly gone. Their rooms are just as they left them-"

"Why haven't you done something about that, or had Mrs. Tethering do it for you?"

It was Malcolm's way to remove painful reminders immediately. He had sold Mal's car within weeks of the funeral, and sold the horses off by the following summer. I hadn't objected to any of it; no one had the spirit or interest left to object.

"I can't. Not yet. I think a part of me believes that they will come home. How long will it be before I stop expecting that? Why can't they just... come home? Why can't I see them one last time?"

My eyes smarted, but I would not cry. I hadn't been able to cry for so long. Some grief was too deep and long-lasting to be eased by tears.

Malcolm looked at me uncertainly for a moment, then, with a sigh of resignation, put his paper aside, and came toward me. I buried my face against his shoulder.  
It was what I'd wanted to do from the first night we met; surely, by now, I'd grieved enough to have earned the right to expect some solace from him.

We stood clasped together long enough for me to regret my thoughtless torrent of words. It was cruel of me to have unearthed this sorrow again. I tried to take comfort from the uncharacteristic tolerance of my feelings. In many ways, Malcolm's hard edges had been smoothed out by his own bereavement, and by the help of John Amos.

"You must pull yourself together." The words lacked the harshness with which he usually said them.

"Yes. I will." I promised. "It's just that I can't bear the way no one talks about them anymore, as though Mal and Joel never existed. It helps to hear their names aloud now and again, but no one says them."

"We won't forget." he said. Malcolm's embrace, warm and solid, brought immeasurable comfort, and I did not feel I wanted to leave it.

"I should take these glasses away, and I need to-"

"You need to be taken to bed."

It wasn't an invitation; there was nothing uncertain or cautious in his manner. I tightened my arms about him, and Malcolm kissed me, without preamble,  
his mouth tasting of the champagne that coursed through my system, warming me. His breath, too, was warm on my temple as his hands slipped beneath my dress seeking contact with this flesh that still lived.

"Ah," I said, involuntarily digging my fingers into his shoulder with the quickening of my pulse. "I'd like that."

"You will."

I smiled at his limitless arrogance. It had been nearly four years since Malcolm and I had been anything more than casual companions together. The loss of the boys had driven us to a state of separation which seemed insurmountable, and I'd had no will to change it.

I'd thought the needs of youth finished. I had not felt able to before, but surely it was a small matter to give him the comfort of my body. As long as I could prolong the abstraction, I did not have to think; I did not have to grieve, and so I reached out and switched off the lamp.

I allowed myself to be convinced, allowed this distraction, for that was what Malcolm intended it to be. I did not stop him when he fumbled at the lace at the top of my nightdress, unfastening the buttons, and laid the gown on a nearby chair. I reached to undress him, and waited as he moved across the room to hang his clothes in the closet, for Malcolm was as fastidious about well-made clothing as Joel had been.

My clamoring senses, I discovered, had not forgotten pleasure, nor the intimate knowledge acquired through years. It was not only an answering lust, but a kind of consolation, as his kisses commanded equal return, as if contact were nourishment. I could have lain there all night, languorously accommodating, his silky hair against my cheek, my arms around him. But he eventually turned away, wordless, resigned. I did not feel much disappointment, for there was tomorrow,  
and the thousands of tomorrows after that. After twenty-six years, there is not as much need for urgency.

"You ought to get some sleep if you still plan us to get an early start." I said, softly.

"I heard one of the kids up and about, a while ago."

"It's Christopher."

"He'd better be alert in the morning to drive." said Malcolm, and drifted off, soon afterward.

As always, it was an hour before I could sleep. The bed was too soft, the pillow too flat. I lay on my back, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the hotel and the city, finally turning onto my side, and slept.

Later, I was partially awakened, as I had been, the previous night, by Malcolm's coughing. I listened to the stertorous breathing, uncertain whether to wake him, only to have him irritably insist that he was all right. I reached over, brushed a hand across his back, said his name, sleepily. He murmured something, and half turned toward me.

I was too tired to fully waken, registering only that it was still dark when dreams were dispersed by the warmth of undreamed touch. Malcolm's heavy thigh lay across my knees, his hands adeptly searched, lifting the hem of my gown, parting my thighs, traversing a known path to the desire he created. A quick,  
liquid heat radiated outward, even to the tips of my fingers. I was too eager for him to object to anything he wished to do, or to feel surprise at this unexpected generosity-for Malcolm rarely did anything which did not also enhance his own enjoyment. His hands moved over me, inside me, as sure as if they had been my own, to bring forth the response he required. I wanted more, but could be satisfied by this, if nothing further was possible, (as, soon, it would be.)

"Tomorrow, at home." he whispered against my ear, when I reached for him. "Tomorrow."

"We'll have to leave soon, if we're to reach home by tonight." stressed Malcolm, when we joined Christopher and Corinne for breakfast.

Corinne, I was pleased to see, wore the single strand of princess-length pearls I'd given her as graduation gift. Because Malcolm bestowed so many gifts upon her, it was always challenging to choose something she would like. Of course, no gift could elicit the same level of enthusiasm evoked by Malcolm's gift of the convertible, but the pearls were as flawless as Corinne's complexion. They did look lovely on her, as I'd known they would.

"What time will we be home?" asked Corinne.

"By nine or ten, I should think."

"Coffee, Olivia?" asked Christopher, pouring a cup which I gratefully accepted. He was the only one of us who seemed ready to face the day, and in the end,  
he did most of the driving.

I spread honey onto a croissant. I couldn't help noticing that Corinne only picked at her omelet, and she took no coffee.

Her appearance was, as ever, neat; she wore a new aqua-striped summer frock, and had her shoulder-length, wavy hair parted on the side, styled in the fashion of some actress or other. But yesterday, as we'd spent the afternoon together having our hair set for Christopher's graduation, I had noticed her pallor.

"Are you feeling poorly, darling?" I asked, taking her aside shortly before we left the hotel.

"No, no." she assured me, blushing. She moved about the room, picking up hairpins and a silver compact, putting her pink satin lingerie bag into a suitcase.  
"It's just... Mama, I must speak to you."

She latched the case and turned to look at me, running the cool beads of her necklace through her fingers, like a nun with her rosary.

"It's getting late." called Malcolm.

"It can wait." Corinne said, smiling.

I stepped, phlegmatically, out into the bracing sea air and bright morning sunshine, eyes blinking rapidly against the glare. Everything looked too fresh,  
too glisteningly wonderful to be real. But this morning, I felt just a little less encumbered by the miserable past, the past that made the present seem emptier than it was. Corinne and Christopher had a bright future to look to, and they were our future.

"I wish we didn't have to hurry home." I said. "It would be nice to stay and see more of the city."

"Oh, yes, Daddy. We must see the boardwalk. Can't we stay until tomorrow?" Corinne asked, turning an imploring gaze on Malcolm.

"The rest of you may have the summer free, but I do not." said Malcolm. He deplored having his plans changed by other people or circumstances, it unsettled him.

We arrived at Foxworth Hall late, as Malcolm had predicted. Christopher took his luggage up to his suite in the north wing, and I didn't see him again that night. I retired to my room soon after we reached home, not remembering that Corinne had wished to talk to me. The next morning, I entered the dining room and found Malcolm breakfasting alone.

Minnie served my breakfast, and withdrew.

"Are you going in?" I asked Malcolm, meaning in to Charlottesville, to his office.

"No. I'll be working here."

We all needed a quiet day at home, after traveling.

"I hope Corinne hasn't made plans to have friends in." he said.

"She hasn't told me anything about it. If anything, she'll go out."

I hadn't meant my speaking of the boys to throw Malcolm back into his somber mood, but an hour later, I came upon him standing in the north salon, staring in the direction of the pictures of Mal and Joel, with unfocused eyes and bowed shoulders. I thought he hadn't heard my approach, but he spoke as I entered the room.

"I thought if I could keep him home... that's all I meant to do, Olivia." he said quietly.

Malcolm had threatened to cut Joel out of the will, seeking to exert some control in that way. At the time, I didn't recognize it as fear of losing him,  
as we had lost Mal. The sad part of it was that the threat might have worked with Mal, but Malcolm hadn't known his second son well. Establishing his own identity through his music was what mattered most to Joel. I could see that thinking of Joel still caused anguish. If Malcolm didn't express this now,  
it would continue to torment him.

"I was proud of Mal in a way I can't be about Corinne. And Joel-perhaps if he'd had a few more years, more maturity... I didn't fully realize until...  
but I-"

"You loved them? Was that what you wanted to say?" I asked, sharply.

I wasn't the one who needed to hear this admission. Why could he say this to John Amos, and why, only now, when the boys would never hear it could he finally express his feelings?-feelings born, belatedly, of guilt.

"I'm sorry." he said.

"Don't tell me that you're SORRY."

My anger descended just as quickly into a deep sadness that would remain with me. I still found it difficult to accept that Malcolm was capable of feeling remorse, though I knew from my talks with John Amos that he did.

"I am sure they knew that." I said, making my choice, making the effort. "You saw Joel's letters. He always wrote that he was thinking of us-both of us."

Our sons were gone. Malcolm would live on, and I must live on with him. Although I didn't want to concede anything, if I could free him from some of the guilt, wasn't I obligated to try? Perhaps as recently as the year before, I would not have cared to, but John Amos had forced me to ask for God's forgiveness,  
and to forgive myself. Forgiving Malcolm couldn't be more difficult than that.

"You're clutching at straws."

"You think they didn't know you cared about them? Malcolm, I had many talks with the boys-with Mal in particular, and I do think he understood that it wasn't your way to speak in such direct terms. You showed it in other ways." He looked unconvinced. "With your confidence in him. By giving him responsibilities,  
by taking for granted that he would succeed."

"He shouldn't have bought that goddamned motorcycle."

It took me a few seconds to realize that his anger wasn't with me, but with Mal, who, even gone, needed his mother to come to his defense.

"Why... why did he do it?" I asked, frightened of my question, afraid to bring up what we had never discussed. I felt an urgency; perhaps it was time I faced the answer. And if I knew the answer, maybe I could understand and accept why Mal had died.

Malcolm's expression became guarded.

"What? You did not see the reports." he said quickly. "There WAS something wrong with that bike."

Malcolm-or had it been John Amos?-had identified Mal's body. Although I had resented such high-handedness, at a time when I was so distraught, it was a kindness that Malcolm insisted I be excluded from that necessary part of the procedures.

"He told Corinne to jump. Why couldn't he-"

"You've got the wrong idea, and I won't discuss it, Olivia. Please, leave it be."

I picked up one of the photographs, and looked at it rather than at Malcolm.

"All right." I said at last, choosing to drop the subject. By pursuing it, I would only destroy myself, so I chose to accept his word, as he had accepted mine.

At length, I went away to have a word with the cook, and with John Amos, who asked many questions about our trip and the graduations. At ten o'clock, I gathered the week's mail, and went into my small office. Over a second cup of coffee, I took my paper-knife to each envelope in turn, until I came to the large manila one, addressed to Christopher.


	13. Aftermath

Chapter 18 insert

(page 356)

AFTERMATH

"My fair-young cousins; human flowers,  
Adorning this gray band of ours, -  
Upon the green and fragrant bankss-  
Where bloom your sweet and scented ranks,  
May one "wild oat" ne'er stay or drop,  
To propagate a sinful crop.  
But in your sunshine's golden glow,  
May you to full perfection grow,  
To guard the honor of our name,  
Dearer by far than wealth or fame." - A Bicknell Idyl

 

"What's this?"

"Malcolm wrote it." I said.

"Yes," she glanced down at the first page with a little smile. "Market Analysis: Its Principles and Methods." she read. "Of course. Malcolm. Who else could  
have written this?"

"It's dry, yes. That's not my point. There are two-hundred pages there, Millicent, and an outline. He was nearly finished, and I knew nothing about it until  
two days ago. He wouldn't have told me unless... until it was published."

She looked at me, uncertain.

"He isn't going to complete it now." I said, replacing the manuscript into a drawer atop a stack of other partially constructed articles on inflation, business  
cycles, and various other subjects that interested Malcolm. "He's lost his will to do anything but sit there and... THEY did this to him--Christopher and  
Corinne did this!"

"I heard about Christopher and Corinne." she said carefully.

"What did you hear?"

"That they eloped."

"They didn't elope," I almost shrieked, "Malcolm threw them out!"

It was the first time I acknowledged to myself, much less to another, that I felt conflicted about the way we had handled the situation with Corinne and  
Christopher. I missed them, yet I firmly believed that Malcolm had done what was right. John Amos approved of Malcolm's choice, so how could I speak against  
it?

"He threw them out?" she repeated, "I can't believe Malcolm would do that to Corinne."

This was a man who could turn out his beloved daughter without a penny. I had stood with my husband that day, backing him up. I supported that decision,  
as I supported most decisions, even if I didn't agree wholeheartedly. The realization made me uncomfortable with what it told me about myself, but it was  
too late to change now.

"Believe it." I said, tired of the whispers, the veiled questions from everyone--from those we could safely call friends, to those who were only curious  
for the sake of propagating gossip. Most of the time, I felt that everyone I encountered was part of the latter group. I had greater concerns, and I didn't  
feel able to cope with my family being reduced to a spectacle. Lately, I'd been willing to lose my closest friend, because I felt I couldn't trust anyone.  
This lack of trust and my lack of free time had nearly made strangers of Millicent and me.

I didn't blame Millicent for not understanding how I felt about Corinne's enforced absence, and about the effect it had wrought on Malcolm. In some ways, losing our daughter felt like another death. So much time, emotion and energy is poured into raising and loving a child that to lose it all at once is  
crippling. Well-meaning people make hurtful and stupid remarks, in a misguided attempt to comfort. This had been the case after Mal and Joel died, and it  
was happening to a lesser degree again, now. Millicent could not understand how I felt; she didn't have the words to restore any of the joy I'd lost.

"Our luggage from their graduation trip hadn't even been unpacked yet when Malcolm-" I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but I could not forget the desolate look of the library when I'd returned home from the hospital that awful day, to see a fountain pen lying on the desk, just where it had fallen  
from Malcolm's fingers, a mug of black coffee gone cold and untouched next to his papers.

"They were too closely related, and they well knew it!" I said. "There is no excuse for what they are doing! One CANNOT love indiscriminately. Simply calling  
it love doesn't negate the fact that it is incest." I heard Malcolm's voice echo in my mind what he frequently expressed.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't have revealed so much of our troubles or my thoughts concerning them, but rumors were prevalent, and I doubted if anything I could  
say would come as a surprise to Millicent. And Millicent wasn't just anyone, I reminded myself, feeling guilty for my disloyal thoughts. She did care, and she  
wasn't one for spreading gossip.

"Selfishness--that's all it is! Christopher--that paragon of virtue-" I said, letting sarcasm creep in, "thought nothing of destroying us. Even if Corinne  
wasn't, Christopher was certainly old enough to understand how carrying on an affair with our daughter would taint the opinions people have of us. He didn't  
care about us enough even to stop and consider how such a scandal would impact our entire existence. Malcolm's business relationships have suffered, many  
of these men were social acquaintances as well. They've done incalculable damage to the Foxworth name, and to my husband's credibility."

Of course, it wasn't Malcolm who had dealt with the aftermath of the scandal. Because of his illness, it had fallen to me to attend to our interests, which  
was why I was still in town at six o'clock in the evening in Malcolm's office, file folders and miscellaneous papers spread before me on his wide desk.  
I sat back in the chair, and looked across at Millicent. She turned from me to stare out the window, a window whose view did not offer any distraction,  
for the only view beyond the glass was a brick wall of the neighboring building. I doubted that Malcolm ever saw even that much; he didn't choose to see  
anything outside of his immediate sphere of control and thought. The office, too, lacked color, characterized by functional, comfortable furniture, but  
no personal objects; there wasn't a single family photograph on Malcolm's desk. It was very much the office of one who dislikes ostentation in his workspace.

"You are so angry." said Millicent softly, almost to herself, and it occurred to me that I must present a formidable picture. "That is more manageable than  
sadness, isn't it?"

I held myself rigidly still, not looking at her.

"Why not call it a day, Olivia?" she waited, then determinedly forged on. "Have supper with me before you go home. Why, I haven't seen you in a month of  
Sundays."

I nodded, relenting, and swept what I'd been working on into the top drawer of the desk, locking it and the file cabinets before leaving the office. We  
pulled on coats and scarves and walked out into the first snow of autumn.

"I've never been as exhausted as I am now." I admitted. "I've never worked as hard as I have in these last few months, Millicent. Is this what it's been  
like for you all these years?" She smiled, but didn't reply. She didn't want to wait for the trolley, so we walked the few blocks to her house. "This is  
what it's been like for Malcolm all along, and to think how I used to resent the late hours he had to work! I even suspected that he lied to me, some of  
those evenings when he claimed to be working late."

"I'd see him downtown now and again, and he was always in a great hurry."

"Too busy to be polite and say hello, I suppose." I said wryly. We entered the house by the side door into the warm, clean kitchen.

"I didn't mind. I've never been one of his favorite people."

She never said so, but I knew she disliked Malcolm. It was mutual, though Malcolm was not as reticent on the subject, and freely expressed his dislike of  
her to me. I'd thought until recently that Millicent had no discernible reason for her dislike, for in social situations, he could be agreeable, even charming  
when it suited him to be so, and anyway, Millicent rarely ever saw Malcolm.

I'd only recently discovered that during the height of the depression of the last decade, Malcolm had purchased several properties in the business district,  
one of them being the building where Millicent's shop had been housed for the last eleven years. I wondered if he'd increased the cost of renting the space.  
Had there been some other problem I was not aware of? I wondered if this awkward circumstance was the reason for her marked coolness toward him on the  
rare occasion when they met in my presence, but I could not bring myself to ask.

"Looks like Carrie's been here," she said, looking around at the tidy kitchen. In a corner, clothes sloshed around in the wash.

"How is she?" I asked.

"The baby's due any day now. You know, I think she's much happier this time around."

"With her marriage, you mean?"

"Yes." she went on to expound upon the virtues of her new son-in-law, and to show me recent pictures of Caroline's older child, Molly, who had started at  
the Venable Elementary school that fall.

"Isn't she sweet." I said. "She looks so much like your mother."

"Yes," she said pensively. "It's a shame Mother won't know it. She has so few lucid days, now. She doesn't recognize any of us, and she's paranoid--afraid  
of spies. She is convinced there are radios hidden in the walls. She says she hears voices. Molly thinks it's a game, naturally, and encourages her. It's  
funny, but sad, too."

"Molly's pleased as punch about having a real baby to play with soon." she went on. "If it's another girl, Carrie says they'll call her Noreen. It's my second name--Caroline's, too." she grimaced. "That was Mother's idea, but I've never liked it."

How I envied Millicent at that moment. She was the one who was truly rich, with her family well and happy and loving around her, and grandchildren to bring  
her joy.

She filled the kettle and put it on to boil, brought out a jar and spooned out ginger-peach tea, then surveyed the contents of her pantry.

"Let me help you with that." I offered, as Millicent began making a complicated-looking winter stew.

"Not this time. Sit there and rest. You've had a long day."

She was being kind, but I could not relax when I knew I really should be at home. I began to pace about the small kitchen as I waited for the kettle to  
boil. I reorganized her spice rack, and then restored it to its former incomprehensible system.

"So how is he getting on, Olivia? How is he coping with-" She struggled for the right words, but there was no delicate way to refer to Malcolm's health,  
and such severe impairments.

"With being a cripple?" I said bitterly. She reddened. "Not well, but that's to be expected. He wants a busy schedule, lunching with men, talking with customers,  
going on business trips. He wants competition again, challenges, responsibilities and triumphs, but," I sighed. "his doctors say all of that would be too  
much of a strain."

"It must be a difficult change to accept so abruptly, for one who was once so active."

Her words were tinged with a mild regret, but somehow, they lacked sympathy.

"It hasn't been easy." I acknowledged.

Malcolm wanted to work; he must work, but he could not--at least not yet. I believe he thought that hard work alone could save him, and that was impossible.  
I wasn't making his transition easier. I had such mixed feelings, and at times, I had been unkind, even cruel to Malcolm, just because I could be, and  
because I held long-term grudges.

"It wasn't your confession to make; it wasn't your place to tell John!" Malcolm had ranted at me the previous week, after discovering that I'd confided  
our secret about Corinne's origins to John Amos. "It's none of his goddamn business, Olivia."

"And how are you coping, Olivia?" inquired Millicent.

"I'm all right." I said dismissively. "My mother suffered a long illness before she finally died. It was a long time ago, and I was in school and didn't  
often do the day to day tasks of nursing her, but I still feel accustomed to this."

"You'll get by. You are amazingly resilient."

"I do wish people would stop saying that to me! All it means is that I tolerate what others would not."

"You still have your husband; you are not alone."

"What kind of husband do I have?" I demanded in a fit of self-pity and anger. "An invalid who can't-"

I stopped abruptly, aware, belatedly, of Millicent's empty house, and uncomfortably conscious of the fact that she truly did have to survive alone. She  
thought she was being kind in reminding me of what she must see as the positives in my life, but how wrong she was!

"He can't do a lot of things, but you can. Now he can't work incessantly. That should make you happy, I'd think. Why do you punish yourself so, Olivia?  
It isn't even necessary for you to work as much as you do."

"I do have to work." I insisted, but she ignored that, not understanding that staying busy was all that kept me sane, that I needed to be the businesslike  
and balanced person I was when submerged in work.

"It's not as if the two of you would ever be turned out of your house, or go hungry, or lack in any way." she stopped, dropping her gaze to the carrots  
and celery she was chopping, as if knowing her words were futile.

If I'd thought before reacting, if I'd said something like: "And we don't have to listen to our neighbor practicing cello, either," I could have lightened  
the moment by making a joke of it--of what Millicent herself usually found humor in, her tiny house, of all that made her life different than mine. But  
I had lost my ability to make light of anything, so I rose from the chair, disappointed that she did not understand me after twenty years of friendship.

"I'll call Carrington, and go home." I said crisply.

"No, Olivia. Stay. I'll drive you home later. I'm sorry. I've overstepped. The last few years have been a real hardship, and I'm wrong to believe you haven't  
been touched by trials too. I know better."

"Never mind it." I said, waving away her apology with a gesture Malcolm often used. "I'm sorry, too. I am tired and too thin-skinned just now."

She gave me a smile that meant all was forgiven, for, of the two of us, Millicent was truly the resilient one.

"And so how is the work going? Do you enjoy it at all?"

"I think I will, but there are some problems now." I said.

The men Malcolm worked with didn't want a woman--not even the wife of Malcolm Foxworth--making key decisions and issuing orders. They had to be convinced  
that I was capable of stepping into Malcolm's shoes, and undoubtedly they believed his judgment must have been impaired after his heart attack to have  
permitted me to try. It would take a long time to gain their respect, to vanquish their doubts and condescending attitudes, and it was to be one of the  
most difficult periods in my life.

"Malcolm expects me to keep everything running as before, and to oversee matters, since he is unable. I don't think he trusts his own people, though most of them  
have worked for him for two decades or more. It's just a vague distrust. But it's disheartening, for I'm finding that, very likely, his concerns aren't  
groundless. I've been going over the books, and I've discovered some false accounting. It's Matthew Allen, I'm almost certain."

"Olivia, surely not? Matthew's known him and worked with him for ages!"

"Since Malcolm's been ill, Matthew's come to see him only twice. Matthew calls himself a friend, yet the minute Malcolm's out of the way..."

"What will you do?"

"I'm not sure, yet. I don't know how I'll tell Malcolm of my suspicions."

I poured a second cup of tea, added sugar, and sipped the restorative hot liquid.

"And Matthew isn't making it easier for me--not that I expect anyone to smooth the way for me, but he is constantly looking over my shoulder. And it's not  
only Matthew, it's everyone, even the women. Even the secretaries don't want to follow my instructions. I may have to replace them all, though I hate to  
do it." I glanced at my watch. "I'll have to be taking my leave, soon."

"Didn't you say Malcolm's nurse leaves at eight, on weekdays?"

"That's right. But I'd like to have a word with her before that." I said, idly picking up a nearby book, Elizabeth Page's lengthy historical novel. "I never did get around to reading this."

"Take it, if you think you'll like it. I can never make time to finish it."

"It might be a suitable diversion to get me through Christmas." I tucked the book into my handbag.

"Speaking of Christmas," she said, crossing to a cabinet in the short hallway between the parlor and kitchen, from which she retrieved a folded packet.  
"If I am to have it ready for the party in time, you'll need to come in and confer with me about your dress."

"A dress?"

"I have the most gorgeous green fabric, similar to this. It will look marvelous on you." she always was given to exaggeration of this sort.

Frequently now, I tended toward plainness and solid colors in my everyday dress, finding it best reflected my state of mind, but formal attire was another matter, and I examined  
the fabric, trying to disguise my lack of interest. I would not have need of such a dress for a long while, yet.

"I don't know, Millicent."

Impulsively, she turned and hugged me.

"I'm so sorry, Olivia. You've had a difficult year."

"Too many of them."

I reached home and found Malcolm and John reading together, still an uncommon enough sight to surprise me, but I was pleased. They were in the north salon--a  
smaller and warmer place to be in the middle of winter. When I joined them, John's manner took on the attitude of one giving a kind of performance, projecting  
as if not two, but dozens of listeners surrounded him.

"Some people," intoned John, "eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs."

As time went on, these sessions studying with John Amos became more frequent, more necessary. I was grateful to him for bringing us this little solace,  
this great hope. In many ways, John strengthened our bond and renewed us during a very sad time. O God, I thought, Thou hast rejected us. Thou hast broken  
us; Thou hast been angry; O, restore us. And He was restoring us, slowly--so slowly that some days, I wondered if we were making any progress at all, but  
John always reassured me that we were.

Losing Mal and Joel weakened Malcolm, and his failing health continued the process. He had lost a lot of weight while in the hospital. It took Malcolm a  
long time to regain coordination and strength; his hand had to be guided so that he could feed himself, and when he was able to attempt walking again,  
he leaned on a cane for support. He tired easily, so that walking was not frequently an option, and he was often impatient with his own clumsy efforts.  
He could not, now, even climb the stairs unaided, so we had made over my small office beyond the library into a room for him.

I tried to banish negativity, but frequently, I thought that this was who Malcolm should have been in twenty years, not now. That quality which had  
made Malcolm larger than life--even to me, at times--was gone, along with his dignity and his youth, gone forever. He was only middle-aged, but in an instant,  
he had been made old--we both had been made old, our middle years stolen.

That Corinne and Christopher should be living happily somewhere, while we suffered  
was almost more than I could bear. The injustice of it embittered me toward the two of them, in the same way I'd once felt toward Malcolm, and it changed  
me, too. I had the feeling that if I could resent Malcolm I would once again know who I was, but even the old grudges were weakening.

We were both changing. At times it disturbed me, and I grasped at the remnants of the person I'd been before so much tragedy had altered my outlook and my loyalties. Sometimes,  
I would mentally list my grievances against Malcolm, but finally had to acknowledge to myself that they were often as much about what I had withheld from him as about all he had not given me, and I found I could no longer feel as strongly slighted as I once had.

But how could I have failed to recognize the nascent closeness between Christopher and Corinne, and what it meant? How was it possible that John Amos had  
guessed--a man who could not know what such a relationship was? John Amos viewed--with thinly concealed disdain--all romantic ties as anathema to his ascetic  
ideals, as though such worldly desires were beneath him. I could understand this. I agreed with John Amos, to some degree. I had been brought up on Puritanical  
sensibilities and morals, and I could never quite shake the nagging belief that lustful thoughts and feelings were sinful, although mine were confined  
to their rightful place.

John Amos had, indirectly, been reinforcing this idea, though not specifically, and not to me. John's comments were just vague enough not to be offensive,  
and always they were directed to a contumaciously unrepentant Malcolm. Slowly, however, over the course of the last three years, John had been chipping  
away at Malcolm's arrogant attitude. I felt a strange, fleeting sadness about this, though it was for the best; it was for the preservation of his soul.

With this in mind, perhaps, I went into the Swan Room one day, intending to make it my final visit there, to resolutely pack away all of our confusion.  
I intended to pack away all that had belonged to Malcolm's mother, and have it taken to the attic, or disposed of in some other way. It hardly mattered  
now--no one but Mrs. Tethering ever entered this room--but somehow, it seemed necessary to tie up this loose end. It was a task long delayed, and accomplished  
too late to matter. But I found I couldn't bring myself to handle Corinne's and Alicia's things, as though they had the power to contaminate me.

I perched on the stool by the vanity table, and looked about, wondering what precisely was the sinful hold this room had over us all. In the mirror's depths  
I only saw a reflection of my younger self, coming into this room several times during those first months, before Mal was born, trying to expunge my memory  
of that first day's unpleasantness, trying to understand what had gone wrong so early in my marriage. I didn't want to associate this room with that day  
forever; I was unable to cleanse my memory of it completely. I could not permanently lock up this room and wish it away, but I had eventually found a way  
to allow the dark memory to loosen its grip on me. My son had probably been conceived that afternoon. It had been foolish superstition, but I couldn't  
help worrying that Corinne's insalubrious shadow would follow him as well.

The evil of this room had left its mark on us again, on our daughter, and there was no way to relegate it to the past. Was I responsible in some minor way?  
I should have defied Malcolm and insisted that this horrid room be redecorated altogether.

"That wouldn't have been a bad idea." Millicent said when I showed her the Swan Room some months later. "It would have been suitable for a frivolous young  
girl, but not for an older woman, surely."

"Oh no, Malcolm's mother did not grow old here. In fact, she only lived at Foxworth for six years. She was just eighteen when she married Garland."

Millicent did not ask questions, perhaps assuming that, as many women did until recent decades, Malcolm's mother had died in childbirth. The scandal of  
Garland's first wife running off with another man was an old one, and Foxworth history was not likely to be of much interest, so I did not speak of it.

"I've only ever seen one photograph of her, and it's long since been lost. She was quite pretty, from what I can recall of an old picture. This was her room,  
and then Alicia's."

"Its shades of color don't quite meld together, in my opinion. I can't believe anyone thought this a good idea! It is hideously ugly--too pink." said Millicent.

Yes, it was an ugly room; why hadn't I seen that before? She didn't know about the secrets of this room and what it meant to me, and still, she had intuited right away that it wasn't a place of beauty.

"You can take any of these things--anything you think you can use."

"I've never seen the like." she said, opening the closets. "Molly would love to play dress up with all of this finery."

As she chose what she wanted, I became absorbed in my own thoughts. I lost track of time conscious of the surreal sensation which came over me when I was  
alone here. Time ceased to have meaning in the silence of the Swan Room, but it was not a restful silence.

I remembered how Malcolm spoke of his mother and women like her with excessive loathing. And then, I recalled how he had said, with as much tenderness as  
I'd ever known him to express toward me in those first days: "They are exactly what you are not."

On that long ago afternoon, Malcolm had insisted that the Swan Room was not our house, that it had nothing to do with our house. If only that had been true!  
I believe he had good intentions in the beginning, but his mother's influence was too strong.

If only I'd been strong enough for the both of us--if only I'd insisted we leave Foxworth Hall once Garland brought Alicia to live here! Now and then, I  
speculated about how different life might have been if Malcolm and I had made a home of our own--one not filled with Foxworth relics, a house which was  
entirely ours, rather than this inheritance of ghosts and traditions.

It was, of course, absurd to long for what had never been more than a pleasant daydream, but the regret of not having pursued that fresh start deeply saddened  
me sometimes. Would a clean slate have made a difference for us? I believe it would have, and in thinking this, I came closest to understanding that Corinne's  
leaving was for the best, and that she had to go, whether with Christopher or without him. Malcolm could never be made to understand this.

If we had moved out, then Christopher most likely wouldn't have been part of our lives, and despite the events of last summer, I had moments of gratitude  
for the happiness he'd brought. We would have been just as alone with our memories. Empty rooms are the same anywhere--in Foxworth Hall, or some other  
place.

It occurred to me for the first time, that my disgust over Corinne and Christopher's relationship probably stemmed partly from my own unfortunate beginning  
in this house. Why did everything lead back to the Swan Room, Corinne,  
and a tendency toward the impure and depraved, with love named as the justification for such sin?

Love--I was beginning to have an aversion to the very word! If that was what love made of people, I was glad not to be under its influence. I had rarely  
seen any favorable results of love. It made people unforgivably selfish, and careless of the welfare of others. This was a belief Malcolm and I shared.  
We had both been harmed by love, and if love did exist in any form between us, it must necessarily be called by other names--duty, commitment, constancy,  
perhaps.  
But how had this disastrous turn of events happened? Where had I failed in Corinne's upbringing? What moral standards had I not imparted to her? Strangely,  
Malcolm did not seem to blame me. He had no energy left for any but self blame. I thought of Corinne often, going over and over the past three years, searching  
for answers.

It was impossible for me to understand what had possessed her to act as she had done. Malcolm and I--in two weeks' time--passed through the entire gamut  
of love's range, from our first meeting to the ultimate act of union. No need for words, or lengthy consideration or delay. What did I know of love? What  
did I know of unsanctioned caresses, of kisses that paved the way to the forbidden? Passion's temptation must be very strong when coupled with love, and  
Corinne believed she was in love. But she was only eighteen! She should know nothing of that sort of temptation. Girls of Corinne's generation knew so  
much more than we had at the same age, Millicent often said. The thought made me shudder, made me feel the magnitude of my failure as Corinne's mother.

Sometimes, waking in the small hours of the morning--especially on holidays when I missed her most, I tried to imagine Corinne, my daughter--not the stranger  
who had left us. I found her silver bangle bracelet in the Swan Room, and it made me sick to think how easily she'd left behind this last gift Joel had  
sent her. At first, it upset me that she cared so little, but then I realized she had forgotten it in the bustle of their forced departure. Now she would  
not have even this inexpensive trinket to remember him by. Was it so easy for her to forget us, and to forget her brothers?

Malcolm's decision was meant to be final, but I did not know how I might feel if we heard from Corinne. I expected to receive a letter or phone call any  
day--dreaded and hoped for it, but December came, her birthday passed, and there was no communication.

I wondered who she was, once she lived away from us. I tried to imagine what kind of life she was forming for herself; I envisioned a modest, modern house  
decorated with a bricolage of elegant cast-offs. Corinne--unlike Joel--had not left this house with a trust fund to fall back upon. She would have to grow  
up quickly. She would have to make do with less than she'd ever had, with the restrictions of wartime rationing.

What Christopher could not provide would soon cause problems between them... or would it? Against all of the odds, would the two of them be successful  
and happy? I could not see them returning to Foxworth Hall, nor could I see myself visiting them, even after I knew their whereabouts in Pennsylvania.  
Here my daydreams collided with reality. God would seek them out where we could not, and their sin would not be forgotten, even if I weakened.

I upbraided myself for allowing my thoughts to wander to Corinne at all. Any sympathy I harbored for her would undermine my faith, and I could not take  
that risk. I had to stop remembering what she had meant to me, so these moments of softer contemplation were lost in the greater bitterness that solidified  
with time.

Millicent came to the house unexpectedly on Christmas Eve, bringing a pumpkin pie and the holiday cheer we lacked. The thoughtfulness of the simple gesture  
meant much to me. John was away on the week's vacation I insisted he take, so that first Christmas without Corinne was a day which would have passed by  
uncelebrated, if not for Millicent. She attended church with us that night, and seemed as affected by the music and service as I was. Even Malcolm was  
in better spirits by the time we returned home, and I was grateful that she'd been more successful than I at drawing him out of his brooding state. We  
were generously invited to Christmas dinner the next day.

"I suppose you can't face the family crowd?" asked Malcolm, after Millicent left us. The direct question surprised me.

"No, I don't think I can." I said truthfully. "And anyway, it would probably be too much for you."

"Well, you can call tomorrow and tell her that."

"They are nice people." I said, though I was glad to have an excuse not to go. "It will probably be the grandchildren, Millicent's daughter, as well as  
her mother."

"We will not be an afterthought to someone else's family." he said, with more vehemence than the situation warranted.

"Aren't you feeling well? Are you in any pain?" I asked, automatically reaching for the nitroglycerin tablets. I refilled a carafe of water, and placed  
it within easy reach on his bedside table.

"Just put the radio on, will you? I want to hear the news."

Millicent spent more time with me at Foxworth Hall than she had ever done. Malcolm never quite warmed to her, but he grew to enjoy Molly's visits, for Millicent  
brought her along occasionally, once Caroline's time was taken up with the new baby. The little girl had little use for Malcolm, but he watched her with  
a wistful gaze I could only conclude was the result of his thinking of Corinne--of seeing a memory of her childhood sunniness in Molly, and it brought  
him out of his dour moods for a time.

Malcolm and I often sat together into the late hours of the night, reading, sometimes talking, but never about the past. We lived in the present, and life  
did settle into new routines over the following few years. I began to work from home almost exclusively, which turned out to be a better arrangement. There  
were gradual improvements in Malcolm's health, though he complained a good deal, before subsiding into resignation about his helplessness. His ill-temper  
wasn't new, of course, but now it was another symptom of his own internal struggle.

Malcolm, who preferred to sleep with a window open in almost any type of weather, often complained that the little room beyond the library was draughty.  
The food wasn't prepared to his liking, and he blamed the new cook rather than the bland, altered diet his doctors recommended. The man hired to paint  
the house one summer was doing a poor job, according to Malcolm, and over charging us. I had made a mistake in hiring an unqualified nurse once... There  
was no end to what he could find to complain about, and it usually came down to what he perceived as my poor management. The encouragement and help I could  
offer was limited. He sensed when I was tired, and grew irascible if he thought he was being neglected.

By spring, when Malcolm's depression hadn't lifted nearly a year after his heart attack, something had to be done. I wheeled him out onto the terrace, into  
the morning sunshine.

"I want to be taken back inside." he said.

"First, I want you to look around, Malcolm. This is all yours. You built it into something beyond anything Garland, or any of your relatives could have  
dreamt." I began.

He looked at me--through me, his eyes devoid of expression, and of interest.

"You might have lost everything in '29. So many did; think of the Camdens, the Pattersons. It's because of your advice that others didn't make the same  
mistakes, and some survived. It's because of you that we are still here today."

"What does that matter? If we don't lose it after this, it's because of you." he said, and this was such an exaggeration that it could be taken for nothing  
but a compliment. There was a silence, heavy with the weight of all that might have been said but wasn't, then he went on: "And I don't know what it means.  
I don't know what it's all for, Olivia."

"For you," I said, then, after a pause, "because you care about it."

"I did."

"You will care about it again."

"I wouldn't be so certain."

"I am certain that the man I married would not be conquered by this." I said, my hand resting on his shoulder.

"I am not that man now, Olivia." he said quietly.

For a few moments, a distant lawn mower and the rustle of leaves overhead were the only sounds, as I absorbed this, and wondered what I could possibly say  
that might make some difference to him.

"But you are essentially the same, Malcolm. You have never been weak, and you aren't now."

"You didn't bargain on this, did you?"

He looked up then, and his blue-frost eyes met mine. There was more life in them than I'd seen since his heart attack. If not for that brief spark of will  
which had once driven him, I would not have continued to speak; I would have given in to the defeat he seemed close to accepting.

"You'll be well and strong again soon. This is temporary." I said firmly. It was just one of a chain of like lies that linked together the days through  
the coming years. Malcolm knew it was untrue just as well as I did, but we kept up the pretense of believing the fiction.

"And until then," I continued, bringing out his manuscript, "I found this. Malcolm, I think you ought to finish it before it becomes dated. There is valuable  
information here."

He took the sheaf of papers reluctantly, but soon he was absorbed, his interest engaged. It was a small step, but it was progress, and looking out into  
the sunlight that blanketed my garden, I felt a slow, quiet contentment--not joy, not happiness, never that--but a deep satisfaction in my well-ordered  
life.

Year by year, we became more isolated, and less involved in life as it had formerly been. Eventually, telephone calls and social invitations all but ceased,  
once it was apparent that Malcolm's full health would not be restored. Were we uninterested? Yes, that is true to some degree, but I have wondered since  
if we were also becoming afraid, and distrustful of the world outside.

Malcolm was in a weakened state, and I, too, felt drawn down, compelled to fade into the gray space that life had become. The blandness of our days  
became the ordinary state of our existence, but I was free, excused, not missed at gatherings and parties. I could spend days as I chose. I could follow radio  
serials, tempt my appetite with delicacies which Malcolm could no longer enjoy. I spent entire afternoons working in the gardens. The south wing became  
my own roomy sanctuary, shared with no one. I redecorated the common rooms twice in three years, but changes of any kind seemed pointless now when our  
rooms and our lives were to be vacant. We were no longer young, we had turned against our daughter, and the world had no use for us.


	14. Escape

Chapter 21

ESCAPE

"Your gentleness now which you just can't help but show,  
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole-  
With your holy medallion in your fingertips that fold,  
And your saintlike face, and your ghostlike soul,  
Who among them could ever think he could destroy you?" - Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowlands

 

When I opened my eyes that fateful November morning, the windows were still dark. First light would reveal that everything had changed, again, but I can't say that I sensed a change, for it seemed like any one of countless other mornings, begun just the same. The hour was too early for anyone in his right mind to be up and about, but to do so had been my routine for the past three years. The solitude of the quiet house and a few hours alone each morning had become a vital part of my day.

I dressed quickly, for there was a chill in the air. I made my way silently along the corridor to the spiraling stairs and stood for a minute,  
looking down.

No one was stirring, Foxworth Hall was as soundless as a tomb. I shivered, suddenly facing the possibility that this idle thought might soon be reality. How long could three unhealthy children continue to exist--for it was not living--in a dim,  
cramped room and musty, freezing attic?

The very thought of such a disaster deeply alarmed me. I had thought nothing could frighten me, or make me feel any emotion, but I had not thought ahead three years. It had never occurred to me that one of the children might sicken and die.

I used to feel that I controlled nearly everything that happened in Foxworth Hall, that the influence this house had over all who passed through its doors  
was mine--mine and Malcolm's. Somehow, I had lost that control; I had given it away, and although it had never been my intention to do so, I now knew what  
a mistake that had been.

I had become aware recently, in one of these morning rituals, that I myself felt trapped by this hideous scheme, and had felt this way for some time. I  
hated the sense of powerlessness I lived with. It was far too late to change anything, I knew. I could not have guessed that this unremarkable morning  
was the day I had--in the hidden places in my mind--hoped for, and dreaded. I feared it for its possible repercussions, and welcomed it, as the end of  
an unpleasant job.

When I walked past the library, its emptiness felt tangible--a burden that weighed upon me every day. I felt Malcolm's absence, keenly; even his churlish  
ways and demands were better than this profound silence. It came as a surprise to me to realize that John Amos hadn't been my only source of strength.

In the last few months, I'd done something which I found distasteful and hypocritical to do,  
but necessary, nonetheless. Several times, I'd gone down the hill to the cemetery to visit Malcolm's grave. Kneeling on the unforgiving ground, I began  
to talk to him, pressing my palms against the hard, icy stone, as if to connect myself in some way with the one I spoke to, or to render myself and my  
anger at having to do this as frozen solid as the earth. After a while, I even felt the emotions I tried, in the beginning, to act out. Soon, I was no  
longer acting. If anyone under the Foxworth roof harbored the belief that I'd hated my husband, or that I was glad to see him dead, they must now be disabused  
of that notion, for my tears were real enough, though I hadn't supposed such a liquid drop of feeling could be wrung from my heart.

"Malcolm," I said, my strained voice, barely above a whisper, was whisked away into the gray, misty atmosphere, and I felt a chill at the sound of it in  
the encompassing silence of these surroundings. Dark clouds scudded across the bruised sky overhead, and I lowered my eyes to the ground, to the chiseled  
inscription: "Malcolm Neal Foxworth: March 24, 1891 -- January 30, 1960."

The day was very much like the day on which we held his funeral--a pitiless, freezing afternoon that I would never forget. At the beginning, my grief was  
mild, for I hadn't lost anything I still needed, or so I'd thought. I'd worn a veil to cover my dry eyes as I suffered through that interminable, ludicrous  
service,  
listening to the otiose, eloquent speeches praising my husband's virtues and piety. I fought a perverse urge to laugh, knowing it was likely just a product  
of hysteria. My tangle of emotions had been entirely unexpected. The only thing that made me want to weep on that day was knowing that no one grieved for  
Malcolm; no one felt sorrow at his passing out of their lives, except perhaps for me--the one person who had no reason for sorrow.

I wasn't the only one with dry eyes that day. Corinne, too, wore a veil. Hers, most likely, was to hide her triumph that she would soon be a very rich woman,  
I'd thought, uncharitably. Everything had seemed so unreal during that time.

"Malcolm, I am so... alone." I confessed, knowing I'd never say these words if he truly could hear them. My voice choked on the tears that finally came  
to release my distress from the shell of reserve I lived in, sinking into the wintry ground as I spoke into the void of silence.

"I don't know how much longer I can stay here."

If only I could break out of the paralysis that had bound me since January. My life had become purposeless.

I glanced about, carefully avoiding the sight of those other markers, which bore the names of my sons. I never visited them; this place held nothing of Mal  
and Joel, and I wondered if my coming here now evoked suspicion.

On a previous occasion, I had glimpsed John Amos spying on me through the trees. I wondered if he was spying now. I was glad that at least he couldn't hear the weak words I uttered in my desperation. He would believe only that I was mourning, and in truth, I was. Since those weeks early this year, things had only gone down hill. How could I do anything but mourn?

Everything had gone wrong, Corinne had gone too far this time, and I'd stood by, doing nothing, too late trying to force her to take responsibility. Why  
had my reason and strength deserted me? That made two times I'd let myself down; that made two people against whom I held resentments. But most of all, I had  
lost some of my self respect. I'd handled this whole situation with Corinne's children poorly.

Through the kitchen's wide north window, I watched the early winter snow falling, as I waited for soup to heat on the stove. I set about gathering the other  
items for the children's basket of food for the day.

As I fitted the key into the lock of the children's door, I heard no sound from within, but it did not occur to me to wonder about it. Since Malcolm's  
last hospitalization, I had been less strict with the children, less concerned if they failed to follow my rules.

Something was amiss, however, and I struggled with the lock for a few seconds, realizing finally that it wasn't engaged! Strength seemed to drain from my limbs, and I lowered the heavy picnic basket to the floor, then pushed open the door, scanning the vacated room, in disbelief. The room was in disarray,  
signs of recent activity everywhere, but I could not see the children. The attic above was silent, as well. The unlocked door left no chance for denial.

Moving aside a heap of clothing, I walked to the window and drew back the draperies to peer out into the gloomy dawn. The grounds of my home gave no  
clues, from this vantage point. They must have left on the first train of the morning. I let the curtains fall back into place.

I felt hollow inside, and fearful. They would surely go to the police, to a hospital, to some authority, and then what? What would happen when the inevitable  
knock or phone call came?  
How would I explain, or attempt to defend myself? There was no reasoning or argument solid or sane enough to save me.

I rushed down the corridor, into the warmth of the south wing. I was alone. Corinne wasn't here to handle this, I thought with considerable resentment.  
As usual, it would have to be me, and I would have to think quickly. I did not feel up to the challenge, but some action must be taken.

The nearest telephones--where I could be sure of privacy--were in the trophy room, and in Malcolm's bedroom. The latter had hurriedly been installed after  
his first heart attack, before it had been necessary for him to stay downstairs. I had never liked or felt comfortable in the trophy room--or the "safari  
room," as Mal had called it--so I hurried past its closed doors and on to the last door on the left.

Malcolm's room was dark, and cold from disuse. I had been awake only an hour, but I sank onto the high bed, wearily. I longed for the oblivion of forgetfulness  
in sleep, but it was time to awaken from the long nightmare of the past three years. A sense of my own isolation and a wave of pure self-pity washed through  
me then for what I had lost and never known, and for what I'd thrown away.

I shivered with cold and panic. Brighter light was pouring in around the edges of the heavy draperies covering the three windows, but it brought no warmth.  
I did not have the strength to walk across to the radiator to turn the handle which would bring heat into the room. Instead, I kicked my shoes to the floor  
and pulled the covers around me. I must think. I must form a plan.

I snatched up the heavy black telephone receiver and began to dial. I wasn't certain of Corinne's whereabouts, but she wouldn't be difficult to track down.  
I told the long-distance operator where I wished to call, and waited nervously for Corinne's voice on the line, hoping desperately that Bartholomew would  
not be the one to answer.

When I heard her soft questioning "Hello," my own voice failed me, so great was my level of anxiety.

"C-Corinne. You must come home immediately."

"Mother, do you realize that it's three in the morning here? What do you want?"

"It's the children! They've gone--all of them!"

I expected Corinne to be accusing, reproachful, but this was not the time for blame and trivial bickering. She must have decided this too. Her next words  
shocked me. It was her fault, she said.

"I'll have to convince Bart to stay and enjoy the rest of his vacation. I don't know what I'll tell him, but I'll be on the first flight home. I should  
be in Virginia by tomorrow night."

What complicated feelings must Corinne have for her children, and for Bartholomew? Which would be stronger? I pitied her, although I couldn't understand her. I felt sorry for the confusion she must live with.

Sentiments of this kind were rare for me, but I was aware in that moment that we were both in a precarious position. For all my personal struggles and my  
core of inner strength--for which I so prided myself, I was as vincible and as guilty as she was in this. I was not prepared for the consequences that might  
follow. My social position and money had protected and sheltered me from so much. They, and my family, both before and after marriage, had kept me safely  
away from commonplace hardship, but it had not kept me innocent, and had not kept me from committing unpardonable crimes.

I pulled open the upper drawer of the night table in search of some implement with which to write her flight information. I rummaged through the drawer,  
tossing aside bits of paper, novels and ancient bottles of medicine. Beneath the miscellaneous items, in the bottom of the drawer lay a plain, unmarked  
envelope. As Corinne continued speaking, I brought it out and glanced inside. It seemed to be nothing but random papers and small envelopes, and two red  
leather-bound books, probably journals or account books. I laid them aside to examine later. If there were important legal documents there, I should be  
aware of them.

Curiosity warred with weariness as I spread the contents of the envelope around me on the bed, and picked up one of the leather books. A glance at the pages  
told me this was a journal. Malcolm's small, neat handwriting filled every page.

The date on the last entry was a few months before Corinne's birth, so this must be the first volume. I opened the other book, and saw that I'd been correct.  
There were blank pages in this one, and the writing had become a shaky scrawl near the end, the entries much shorter. I closed it, and held the two books  
against my chest where my heart pounded violently.

My breathing had become shallow, and I tried to calm myself. I was afraid. Here I held what I'd longed for--answers. Here was the key, Malcolm's private  
thoughts. Oh, part of me felt compelled to read every page of these books, to absorb everything I could learn, but another voice cautioned me to put them  
back and pretend I'd never found them. The cautious voice warned that I might find pain in these yellowing pages. I might find words that could destroy  
me as my own musings and speculations of the years could not.

Over the years, I had often tried--by various means, from eavesdropping to sneaking about to spy--to discern truth that I felt was being withheld from me.  
All of these endeavors had only brought more anguish, and caused me to suffer more acutely than I had in the dark of my ignorance. Would reading these  
journals be just another such instance? I would find truth, and I was unsure if I was ready, or if I really wanted to know it. Knowing what I did about  
Malcolm, perhaps I had no right to look, now or ever. It was an intrusion, one which I would not appreciate if these were my words and thoughts in writing.  
Did one keep a journal because they hoped to be remembered when they were gone, or was it only an exercise in knowing oneself? Malcolm was given more to  
self-aggrandizement than to honest self analysis, and though I held the slim volumes in my hands, I had trouble accepting that they had in fact been written  
by him.

I opened to a random page, and began to read about a difficult, lonely childhood, and the emerging self-preserving, hard-edged responses that developed  
as a result. I had often glimpsed this hurt, frightened child behind the mask of power and anger in the man Malcolm was, a man driven to hurt those who  
cared for him. These pages showed me clearly how he was terrified of being trapped, and even more terrified of being abandoned.

I skimmed forward, skipping many pages, and discovered that quite a few sections had been torn out of the book! The entries from 1916--the entire first  
year of our marriage--had been removed.

Reading further, I concluded that what this book contained was not recollections of cherished moments, but misinformation and self-congratulatory drivel.  
It was Malcolm's history as Malcolm wished his descendants to believe it had happened. There was little that could rightly be called truth in those pages.  
He wrote the majority of it long after the events he relayed had occurred, and during a time when writing something--anything--may have been his only means  
of expelling internal frustration at the turns his life had taken. I closed the journals in annoyance and bewilderment. I would decide what to do with  
them later.

That very day, I began making plans. I would not be here to greet Bartholomew and Corinne when they returned. I would not be picking up the pieces and calming  
Corinne's hysterical worry this time,  
for I was certain her show of courage would have deserted her by the time she reached home.

She had fled Foxworth Hall weeks before, after her younger son died, hoping to run away from her own guilt, I suppose. Now she was running home again, and  
she would expect me to find a solution to this new predicament, but I'd already done my part. Three years is a very long time, even from the other side  
of the locked door. Only Corinne had been truly free. While she lived like a princess, with all made easy for her, basking in her recaptured youth, I kept  
her unwanted children alive, while she turned her eyes and her heart away from them. I felt old, very tired, and I wanted to wash my hands of the entire  
situation. I would do nothing more to help Corinne.

I'd slept late on this particular morning, to my dismay, for I had much to do. I'd been feeling run-  
down and unwell for the last few weeks, with a cold and flu symptoms I couldn't seem to shake, and that was unusual. I was rarely ill. Today, however,  
I'd awakened refreshed and reasonably happy, for this was to be an important day--a milestone of sorts. At one o'clock I would leave, and this departure,  
I hoped, would be permanent.

After a light breakfast, I was checking for anything I might have inadvertently left behind, and attending to other last-minute tasks. I'd just had my suitcase  
carried down to the foyer, and had instructed Livvie to bring a cup of Darjeeling tea to me. She placed the well-arranged tray with my cup and saucer and  
a sugar bowl and demitasse spoon on a low table, and retreated.

"You can't leave!"

John Amos, glowering, stood in the doorway of the north salon.

"Well, if it isn't God's spokesman, back from his mysterious wanderings. How convenient and timely that you should appear today." I said sardonically.

"You are going on a trip without informing me--without a word?"

His powers of observation were phenomenal.

He came into the room, placing a plate of powdered-sugar doughnuts down next to my teacup. Absently, I took one of them.

"I wasn't aware that I owed you an explanation, or that I needed to account to you for my movements, but I suppose it doesn't matter now. It is an errand of personal  
business. I have to see to a sick relative. It is a family matter, and I no longer consider you as such. You know why." I said waspishly.

John smirked.

"Who-" he began to ask, but I cut him off.

"I might ask you where you've been, but I'm not interested. However, I did leave you in charge here, and just as before, you've disregarded my orders."

"What orders? For months, you've hardly spoken to me." he said petulantly.

"I'd still like to know why you neglected to follow my explicit instructions; they were simple enough."

"What instructions?"

"Enough of this pretense, John! Your negligence and idiotic rebellion has caused a serious problem, or what may become one, very soon."

"Is this about the children again?" He smiled coldly. "Really, Olivia, that was over a year ago. Why are you still making such an issue of it? You do hold  
grudges forever."

"Malcolm was in the hospital. You KNEW I had to stay with him; the doctors told me he had only days left. I asked you to feed those children! Why didn't  
you?" I hissed. This confrontation was long overdue. "It is an issue now, because of you. Because you starved them, and because the younger boy died, Corinne's  
children have run away! Do you REALIZE what that means, John? You'll be implicated right along with Corinne and myself, if it comes to that. It can be  
proven that you knew those children were living here."

"You're getting hysterical." he said, sounding very nearly on the brink of that state himself. "You can't pin blame on me."

"Can't I?" I said warningly. Our angry gazes locked. He dropped his eyes first.

"What did you do with the child, John?"

"Ask your daughter." he said.

"I am asking YOU. The last time I saw the boy, he was breathing. I must know what you've done." I demanded, but John Amos refused to answer.

"Where are you going, Olivia, and when will you be back?"

"I won't be returning here."

"Won't be returning?" he questioned, as if not understanding.

"That's right." I confirmed, calmly.

"But you can't leave!"

"I must, and I will. The location where I'll go is no concern of yours. You gave up your right to know my plans, John Amos. Now, I'll thank you to leave me. I wish to enjoy my last hour at Foxworth Hall."

I took a second doughnut. John studied me intently.

"You can't force me to leave this house, or even this room. I pull the strings now, Olivia. Don't wear yourself out, giving orders. You know how easily I could dislodge you from that queenly perch you so enjoy." He smiled coldly, mocking. "Or is it being a widow that makes you so disagreeable?  
I should think it would have improved your disposition."

"Spare me your ridiculous assumptions and thoughts on my temperament."

"You have no choice but to listen to me, Olivia. You're just as powerless as Malcolm was, in the end."

"Don't speak to me of Malcolm!"

"Ah, I've hit a nerve. I'm sure your grief makes him an unpleasant subject."

I scowled.

"Malcolm Foxworth... nothing but a foolish, weak man." he went on. "The two of you, always trying to convince yourselves of your superiority, and constantly cutting the other down to build yourselves up. Was that the game, Olivia?"

"The only game was yours, John Amos. You wanted us to be divided, because you thought you'd have a greater influence on us individually. Together, we wouldn't  
have needed you, or your false advice so much." I said, my voice tremolant with rage and regret. "If not for you, Malcolm might have forgiven Corinne."

John Amos stood before me, a mass of anger and hate, with his flashing black eyes and reddened face. We were in the parlor, facing each other with all vestiges  
of our former ties gone. There was no pretense left between us, only bitterness, since I'd realized the magnitude of the mistake I'd made in placing my  
trust in yet another person who had lied to me. At least Malcolm had not made promises to me, time and again. John's betrayal was worse, in some ways.  
So often, John had promised me his loyalty, and I'd believed. All the confidences I shared with him were turned against me. Why had I been so easily misguided?  
I had ignored good sense. I ignored the fact that I knew Malcolm always was an accurate judge of character, even if I disagreed with his opinions.

His face red with indignation, John took a step nearer. I flung up my hands in a warding-off gesture.

"Just go. I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear your voice."

"Get control of yourself, woman." he said, feigning a calm I knew he didn't feel.

"I shall not be spoken to in that way again, John. I find it insulting and condescending. I won't tolerate that from you any longer."

"I will pray for you, Olivia, that God will see fit to pardon your sins and your doubt of one of his servants." said John.

"Pray? Who will you pray to? I don't think you believe your God exists. Save the insincere prayers for yourself." said I, a derisive note creeping into  
my voice.

"Your eternal soul will burn for that." spluttered John.

"In a universe where you exist, John, I hope there is no such thing as an eternal soul. I no longer believe the version of that fairy tale you've been telling.  
You've even robbed me of that comfort." I said quietly, feeling defeated. I rose, and started toward the foyer.

"Come back!" he shouted. "You've cheated me out of what's rightfully mine."

I had, just this morning, closed out the bank account into which I'd been paying John's sizable monthly salary, but he couldn't yet know of the change.

"Rightfully yours? What in heaven's name can you mean?"

"All my life I had nothing. Your father treated my mother and I like poor relations."

"Why should that surprise you, John? You were no relation of my father's."

"What difference does that make? My mother was your own mother's sister! Constance," he spat my mother's name. "Constance couldn't be bothered with her  
own family, after she married a rich business man."

Was that what Margaret had really believed? I suppose I should have felt some guilt, but I did not. I remember how my father had referred to them as "poor relations."  
I had been brought up with that outlook, and never questioned it.

"Your father could have helped us! What good was giving everything to you, a useless daughter? You had money, then you married even more of it, and still  
you wouldn't part with a penny of it for the only family you have. Then you bring me here as your butler. A butler! Do you think I wanted to be your servant?  
Did you think you were doing me a favor, Olivia?"

"You've never expressed this before." I said quietly, feeling hurt, but I recovered quickly. "Why did you expect to profit from the work of other men? My  
father and I owed you nothing--because you are nothing. If I had not given you employment, you would have continued to flounder, accomplishing nothing.  
You're a pathetic, sniveling excuse for a human being. Malcolm saw that right away."

"I'll tell you, Olivia, what Malcolm saw. He saw an opportunity, an easy way to manipulate you. He and I had an agreement, all along.  
That mistrust he expressed was just a clever part of the plan."

"That is complete nonsense."

"Well, you keep telling yourself that, Olivia, if it helps you to feel less of the fool that you are."

I thought my head would explode from the pressure of my rage.

"I may have been a fool, but I at least am not a liar and a hypocrite, as you are. The only game is yours. The only plan was your devious one to swindle  
as much money from Malcolm and myself as you could get your hands on--you've as much as admitted it. You are responsible for most of the evil at Foxworth  
Hall; you compounded it. I will never forgive what you've done to all of us. Never!"

"Mother," Corinne had once said to me, "you have the most unbelievable capacity for excusing John's reprehensible deeds. I'll never understand it. You give  
that man more authority than you give God himself."

Sadly, I thought, she had been right.

With my next words, I realized my enraged speech was becoming absurdly melodramatic, but I was too angry to care.

"I see you for what you are, now, and I curse you, John Amos! I curse you to suffer the punishment you preached. All the agony and suffering you predicted,  
let it be yours."

With that, feeling exhausted, I left the room, and John Amos forever, hoping that God's vengeance on him would be worse than mine.

I would go back to New England and live out the rest of my days quietly. I left the shambles of life at Foxworth Hall behind, finally. I left Corinne and  
John Amos to torment each other, and get on as best they could under the same roof.

The walls of secrecy among us had been torn down, but we could not repair the damage done, nor did we want to do so. Corinne's children were gone. Now John  
Amos had nothing more to hold over us as a threat. The children themselves were the only threat.


	15. Shifting the Shadows

Chapter 22

SHIFTING THE SHADOWS

"Thou to me,  
Art all things under heaven, all places thou,  
Who, for my willful crime, art banished hence." - John Milton

"So, it is over."

"Yes, it's over."

"What of John?"

"We had words. But he doesn't suspect a thing." I said.

I looked around the narrow room beyond the den; it had once been storage space. It held a new and sparse configuration of furniture. A floor lamp was placed next to a bed, a small, wheeled table, a bookcase which couldn't have held one volume more, a sofa and opposite the bed, an armoire whose single door stood open, displaying a television showing a sentimental war time film.

I did not advance beyond the doorway until Malcolm spoke, then I went over to his chair and, for a moment, put my arms about him. Only then did I know how much I needed that small bit of contact. Not until then did I realize that, on some level, I'd believed that my own life would be over before John's scheme-the children's imprisonment-ended.

"You look well." Malcolm said, as we each took note of the appearance of the other, though no changes were ever remarked.

"I am...better than I thought I'd be." I admitted. "Better, now that I am here."

"You should have been here since January." he chided, the only time he implied that the year apart hadn't been as he would have chosen.

I made no reply, and he said no more. I felt conflicted, and whether Malcolm guessed this, and it was a true understanding, or coincidence that kept him from questioning me , still I was glad he did not prod me to talk about what had kept me away.

Collapsing onto the bed, I slept for hours, without dreaming. I awoke in the morning silence of the four o'clock hour, and lay quietly, listening to the wind rattling the old windows. Bars of color of the test pattern flickered on the television. There was the sound of an early train in the distance, just as one heard the train passing near Foxworth Hall every morning at dawn.

Malcolm slept almost silently. I leaned over to see that his chest was rising and falling. Because I now could, I lightly touched his shoulder; I did not wish to wake him. Folding the goose down comforter aside, then tucking it around him once more, I rose slowly and left the room.

I had much to do, this first day, and fixing a bedroom for myself upstairs, setting the house in better order, and dismissing Malcolm's nurse (for I could perform those tasks just as efficiently) were among the priorities on my list of chores, but nothing needed to be done with any urgency.

I moved through the darkened front part of the house. Now that I was no longer embrangled in Corinne's life, I was aware of how very much lighter I felt. I had not slept as soundly in three years as I had in the past few hours. On my way to the kitchen, I stepped out onto the front porch, and breathed in the bracing icy air of a New England morning. The very clean sharpness of it lent me a new strength, and a much-needed sense of safety.

"How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?"-In new ways, I told myself. Or maybe not at all.

If we are to be punished, it has not yet happened.

John was the wrong one-the lost one, I reminded myself. But in the months that followed, I found it nearly impossible to separate my confusion over John Amos from what little faith I retained. If it remained, it was a quiet faith that did not harm others. My faith had always stemmed from an element of hope and fear, and a need to believe that my sons were safe with God, if not with me. Perhaps it is this need to protect, eternally thwarted, that gave substance to the faith that became so dangerous.

Yet, how could I believe that God would forgive me, when in rare instances of unflinching clarity, I could not forgive myself? I still could not forgive Corinne, and didn't fully believe that we had been entirely wrong.

"Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow. Let his children wander about and beg; and let them seek sustenance far from their ruined homes. Let the creditor seize all that he has; and let strangers plunder the product of his labor. Let there be none to extend kindness to him, nor any to be gracious to his fatherless children."

I do not need to open the Bible to see that passage. In my mind, I still hear John Amos's strident voice quoting the words of the Psalm, shaping my beliefs, transforming love into hate. He kept Malcolm and I studying and talking about God, and I now see how he kept us from properly healing. But in that regard, John Amos hasn't been entirely successful.

In the early mornings, in the first half-wakeful minutes, I am at peace, I feel the stranglehold of John's teaching falling slowly away, but then comes a paralyzing fear of that loss, for what else have I to cling to? Only duty. Only remnants of the woman I once was, and sadness for losing that part of myself, and the unanswerable questions of just why and how I have changed, and continue to change.

How have I gone from being a caring mother to my own, to the kind of sadistic woman who is able to lift a little girl by her hair, an enforcer of strict rules, such as I never expected my own children to follow?

No one ever asked for my side of this shameful story; I am beyond thinking of it as a sad one. No one asked why I felt such a need to punish my daughter,my husband, indirectly, and myself so severely-for that is what it was, ultimately.

I have never attempted to write about myself. Where does one begin with such a daunting undertaking? Starting over, going home, and attempting to explain my life on paper-these things will probably save me.

Ordinary incidents take on great significance, when memory comes upon me unexpectedly, and I struggle to pull every shred of detail from the depths of the past, remembering the quiet joy of time spent with my children. Once, I lived in the false belief that those times would never end, but they ended long ago.

I cannot turn time back to long afternoons spent teaching Corinne to cook, or hearing the silvery lilt of her girlish voice gossiping on the telephone. I cannot regain the mingled pride and awe I knew when listening to Joel's music, or the particular sense of relief at a stolen moment of my own when the children were younger, and playing with neighbors' children. I can recall reading a particular book to Mal so often that we both had every line memorized. I hear my own voice; I hear the voice of my four-year-old son, declaring that he will "read to Mommy, this time." These things are so important to me, and so unimportant to the world that shall go on without us.

It seems unlikely that so much should happen now, when undoubtedly, I am in the last years of a life which has been largely uneventful. Days slip by, uncharacterized by any important discussion or action. I cannot account for how many of my hours are spent.

I see, in trying to account for the years, that I should have kept a journal all along. Memories recede over time, conversations are forgotten. Despair isn't a constant, any more than is love, and happiness and memory is elusive. I cannot recount each day, and much has to be omitted; it hardly matters whether the omission is intentional, or not.

One can hardly fault an old woman for shaving off a year or two, here and there. If by mistake I record a date incorrectly,or say that there was snow on the ground when Corinne brought her children home, when in truth it was summer, it is less important than what happened subsequently. I am old, and though no one ever believes they will feel comfortable admitting it to themselves, I do not avoid facing this truth. I have done all I can with my allotted time, and more than I should have done, in some cases.

Age chisels away all but our most prominent characteristics, and I fear mine will be my undoing. The abundant pride I never managed to excoriate, and which John Amos cautioned against is still part of me, as is the curse of tenderness that one so hardened as I am does not expect to feel.

One more piece of a complicated puzzle falls into place. At last I understand my husband somewhat better, for I know the appeal of not examining motive and emotion too closely. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will regain courage and finish my story. Now I am tired; I have too much to record and too little time to write. I must put down my pen, and turn to simpler tasks.

It is my intention to keep life simple, to forget the past as much as I can. I want nothing more than to be anonymous, to be left alone. I want to feel no regret, no self-loathing, no love and no anger. In the spring and summer, I will tend my garden, and be grateful if I am still here to enjoy its beauty. In the winter, I will let the snow pile up around the house and hide inside, pretending it isn't holiday season, a time for families to be together.

And it might have been that way, but for one telephone call.

I was in the dining-room, leafing through my many cookery books, deciding on a menu for our Christmas. I wanted everything-even dinner-to be as different from Christmas at Foxworth Hall as possible.

I heard the phone ring, and Malcolm called to me.

"Millicent," Malcolm said.

"Olivia, I wondered if you would give me your syllabub recipe." Millicent began. "Caroline wants to make it."

"The drink or the dessert?"

"Drink. And Corinne called me. She would like you to call her. I said I'd pass on the message"

"Yes. Thank you. Very careless of me to forget to give her the number, here." I said, though it had been deliberate.

It was the fifth of December, and Corinne's thirty-seventh birthday. Had she deliberately waited until that day to ask me to phone, thinking I'd be induced, out of sheer sentiment, to help her?

"How are you, Mother?" she started, but her voice was tense, as though her thoughts were already moving ahead to the true reason for her call.

"Quite well, Corinne."

"What are you doing in New London?"

"I keep busy." I prevaricated.

"With what, living there all alone, Mother?"

"At the moment," I said, leafing through a book, "I have begun doing all of the cooking myself."

"Why would you?" she asked, sounding baffled.

"It keeps me busy, and servants can be so temperamental. I'm finding I rather enjoy not having any about."

"You'll tire of it in a few weeks."

"No doubt." I agreed. "If I could find a girl as reliable as Livvie..."

"Livvie worked for you for ten years, didn't she? You can't expect someone new to be as well trained-not right away."

"True enough."

"And, Mother, Livvie quit, the day after you left."

"You'll be shorthanded."

"I interviewed a painfully shy woman today who has no references, but I liked her. She even said she'd be willing to live in, though I told her that none of the maids have done so, for several years now." said Corinne. "I wish you were here. I hardly know what to ask them."

"Just remember, never admit to servants that you don't know how to do what you want done."

"What do you think they're doing, Mother?" asked Corinne.

I knew without needing to ask that she referred to her children. Her voice had grown softer, hesitant.

"How should I know? Probably gorging themselves, and drinking all the soda pop they couldn't have upstairs. If you really wanted to know, you'd go claim them."

"What would I tell people?" There was a silence. "What would I tell Bart?"

"I don't know. He's YOUR husband."

"He won't understand." she said.

"You can't be sure of that."

She didn't answer, but I knew she wouldn't speak to Bartholomew.

"You won't be able to dispute the claim that they are your children, but you can discredit their story, perhaps. Corinne," I said firmly, "you'll have to clear that room, and right away. Everything must go, even the furniture."

"I thought you would have done it the day they left."

"I-I couldn't." I said, remembering how I had gone upstairs one final time, knowing they were gone, knowing that room would be empty. I had walked down to the very end of that hushed corridor, and had stopped on the threshold of the room.

The door was ajar, and I sensed the ghosts shift from within; those ghosts were still too much alive. I nudged the door open another inch, but I could not make myself step into the room; my claustrophobia would not allow it. Dread clutched at my throat, it made my heart hammer in my chest, as I turned, and almost ran through the shadowy hallway toward another door, toward the saving light of the sunny rotunda.

All of this was in those two words: I can't. And Corinne understood, because she knew her own body would rebel as well, should she be forced to enter that room. But one of us must attend to it.

"Will you be coming home, for Christmas?"

Her abrupt change of tone and subject made me wonder if someone was nearby-perhaps Bartholomew.

"Oh, no. I think not."

I had given little thought to the trappings of Christmas; a tree seemed out of the question. My parlor was so crowded, I couldn't imagine where I'd put a tree, nor did I have much interest in decorating one. But perhaps a small one with white lights and icicles...

"I thought for sure you would." she said, her voice, not her words, communicating panic. "Where else would you be, but at Foxworth, for Christmas?"

"She doesn't cope well, on her own." I said to Malcolm, after I'd hung up the phone.

I honestly could not have said whether my apprehension came from worry over how we might be affected, or because I could not stop being Corinne's mother. Some days the inclination to come to her aid was more acute.

Malcolm urged me to take a plane, but I had never flown anywhere, and wasn't about to do so, now. The following morning I boarded an early train to Virginia. Once there, a taxi delivered me to Foxworth Hall.

Picking up my train case, I made my way through the iron gates and up the semi-circular drive, around several parked cars before I had my first full view of the house. Foxworth Hall was unchanged, the single constant and permanent feature of the family it had sheltered for two centuries. It was, as ever, splendid, even without my hand attending to its upkeep.

Corinne was already using her inheritance to make the mansion hers. The addition of a stained-glass sunburst in the arch above the entrance was a nice touch-very striking.

I had not anticipated any form of cordial greeting, still, I was unprepared for the total lack of recognition on the part of the maid who opened the door to me.

"They're expecting me, I believe." I said, indicating the house.

"I wasn't told Mr. and Mrs. Winslow were expecting a guest."

"It's quite cold; I'd like to come in." I said, considerably annoyed at having to ask entrance to my own home.

Corinne had dismissed all of my servants and had hired new ones. This girl was one of them, and she did not know me. I walked past her and started to cross the foyer.

"You can't just..." she stammered, then looked less alarmed as a tall red-haired woman approached, her green eyes on the level with mine. I saw that she would not be an obstruction. This must be the new housekeeper Corinne had mentioned.

"Sarah, this lady asks for Mrs. Winslow."

"I am Mrs. Foxworth." I announced, bored with having to explain who I was. I was still the legal owner of this house, after all. "Please tell my daughter-Mrs.  
Winslow-that I am here."

"Mrs. Winslow isn't in, Ma'am." said the housekeeper, carefully. "But Mr. Winslow will be home within the hour."

Corinne had requested my presence, and I'd come. Why couldn't a woman who filled her days with largely inconsequential activities-playing tennis, attending luncheon and bridge parties-manage to break away from these unimportant engagements, and meet me?

I noticed changes-minor alterations, all, but there were many of them. In the foyer, the color scheme had been changed slightly, and it was not an improvement. New paintings adorned the walls, the old portraits having been removed, relegated to where? The basement? An unused room of the east wing? The attic? Surely not. I doubted if Corinne had been up there. She was one for burying her head in the sand. Corinne was trying to remove all that would tether her to anyone she had once claimed to love-her father, her brothers and her children. By removing the portraits, she made it clear that she wanted no reminders of family, either present and living, or the images of the past, ancestors who, with their dour expressions, seemed to be privy to all, and to disapprove.

I retreated to the small parlor near the door to the east patio-a parlor which had always been considered mine-only to find that it had been divested of the clutter of my books, pictures and plants. The parquet floor was no longer covered by a rug. The old walnut mantel clock had been brought here from the library. The furniture had been rearranged, though I was glad to see that the central piece, the grand piano and matching stool, remained. The rosewood piano, belonging to the last century, had candle sconces bracketed to left and right of the music rack, hinged for easy adjustment. It was a piece too beautiful to be hidden away in the attic, even if it was never used for its intended purpose.

Presently, a shadow fell across the doorway. I looked up and smiled.

"Well, Mrs. Foxworth. Sarah told me you were here."

Bartholomew advanced into the room, and dropped into one of the blue velvet-upholstered armchairs.

"How have you been?" I asked.

"Very well, thank you. And yourself?"

"A winter without so much snow suits me." I said, glancing out at a scene of unmarred wintry, powder-soft whiteness, perfect enough for a holiday greeting card.

"Where is Corinne?" I asked, hoping to divert him from asking about where I had gone to live.

"Shopping with Amelia Bromley, I think, but she'll be home soon. You nearly missed us. Corinne has made plans to go abroad, again." he said, frowning slightly.

I could have guessed that.

"And John Amos?"

"I haven't seen him in weeks. He resigned from his position as butler, Corinne tells me. Honestly, I was rather surprised he hadn't gone to work for you, but he seemed not to know where you had gone. He asked me about it, repeatedly."

I tried to appear indifferent, as knots of tension formed in my stomach.

"Oh?"

"I told him I was not your attorney, therefore I had no details concerning your whereabouts."

"I see. Thank you."

Undoubtedly, if Bartholomew had been more curious, he could have found my address; he had access to information that John did not have, but he chose not to pry. I was grateful. He had unknowingly helped me. I could see why Corinne had been so taken with him from their first meeting.

In all of Corinne's words that bubbled over with happiness, there were more underneath that she left unspoken. Behind her glowing tales of her honeymoon and the many trips she took with Bartholomew, was the inevitable comparison, and the truth that her marriage to Christopher hadn't been so dreamlike and perfect, after all, that she had missed out on some of the things she'd wanted when she was young. Now, with Bartholomew, she had gained respectability in her own world, in the social class she'd been born into that-until she had found herself excluded from-she hadn't known mattered to her.

"There's a bundle of mail for you," he said, indicating the escritoire in the corner. "None of it appears to be important, but I thought it best to save it."

I searched the pigeonholes for my small paper-knife. As I busied myself with the mail-most of it proving to be Christmas cards and charities seeking donations-Bartholomew talked about the itinerary of their upcoming trip, saying that he was glad someone would be here to look after the house in their absence. I didn't tell him that I wouldn't be staying that long.

The library telephone rang. When Bartholomew excused himself to take the call, I went into the kitchen.

No one was about. I put the kettle on, poured boiling water into the Chemex coffee-maker, and surveyed the surroundings.

The kitchen had been remodeled. The old checkerboard tile was gone. All the appliances had been replaced with modern ones, everything sleek and shiny-though why Corinne should care to extend her improvements to a room into which she never ventured, I did not know.

I went to the wall telephone-another recent addition. This might be the only chance I had for a while yet, and hurriedly I dialed the operator, and asked for long-distance.

"Two-oh-three," I said. "The number is Gibson 2-4099."

I waited, listening to the hollow clicks on the other end as the connections were made.

"Your party does not answer," said the operator. I began to worry.

"Please try again."

She put the call through a second time, before Malcolm finally answered. His brusque greeting reassured me that all was well. He always sounded as if he'd been pulled away from some vitally important business. He sounded so annoyed at having to answer the telephone, that the urge to apologize was great.

"It's about time you called." he grumbled.

"It's about time you answered, and I don't have much time." I said, keeping my voice low, though I doubted anyone could overhear. From somewhere down the hall came the sounds of television, the laughter of an audience, then the cheerful jingle of a coffee commercial. "I will return home by the Friday evening train."

"You should fly, to save time." he said.

"Don't harass me about that, now."

"Well? What does she want? What's going on there?"

Stretching the phone cord, I went to the far window, from which I could look out over the driveway.

Someone backed one of the cars out of the garage, and another man salted the ice-covered front steps. By morning, the snow would be solid ice, which might not melt for a week after, making even the briefest walk outside perilous.

"I haven't seen her, yet."

I peeled and sectioned an orange as I spoke, keeping an eye on the door.

"Listen, I think that John Amos has left here, for good."

"Really?"

"Yes, that's what Bartholomew says. He seemed to think that John would not be returning."

There was a silence as we contemplated what this would mean.

"Corinne never liked him. He would be forced to retire now." said Malcolm, and it reminded me of what he'd said when I'd first announced my plan to have my cousin work for us. "He will be your butler, not mine."

"It would be a mistake to rely on Winslow's word." Malcolm now said, decisively.

"I think we can. I am sure he's told me all he knows, and he had common sense enough not to tell John anything."

"What does he know?" Malcolm scoffed.

The inherent, arrogant belief of every generation, I thought-now that our own youth has passed, wisdom is only possessed by the aged.

"I thought you trusted him."

"To a limited degree. But he's no match for John Amos; Winslow is too honest." he said, as if honesty was a disadvantage. "Winslow knows nothing of this unfortunate situation. He knows none of Corinne's secrets. I'm afraid we'll have to dismiss anything he thinks he knows. John won't stay away for long. Corinne has no control over him. If there is the slightest chance that he can gain financially by being in close proximity, he wouldn't pass up such an opportunity. He is clever and dangerous."

"You hardly need remind me of that."

"Olivia," he said slowly, thoughtfully, "as long as you are there, keep your eyes open. I'd like to know if-"

"You're asking me to go through his private papers? I don't spy, Malcolm."

"Call it what you will, but use it to our advantage. Winslow knows the law, but he knows nothing of business and finance, Olivia. He probably mismanages money."

"Another of your infallible pronouncements, of course." I said. "Malcolm, I think you underestimate Bartholomew."

"How, I ask you, does a law degree qualify him to manage businesses? What has it to do with investments, with the efficient running and expansion of the hotel chain, with overseeing my mills?"

The mill operations were especially important to Malcolm, even now. They had been among his first major successful ventures, made independent of Garland's input.

"Apparently, he doesn't believe his presence is necessary!" he concluded.

I didn't bother to remind him that the Winslows' vacation had been a brief one. He had his mind set against Bartholomew.

"I'm sure I know what you're thinking, but even if they are mismanaging, it's out of our hands. We agreed on that, Malcolm." I reminded him sharply. "We agreed. And that's not why I'm here. It's too late for regrets. I think I should wait and see what Corinne says about John Amos; that is most important now."

"Very well," he said.

"Oh, Malcolm, I have other news. I received a short letter from Richmond, from Frances. Your aunt Adelaide has passed away."

I did not see Corinne until the second evening. Having little to do, I found myself moping about the house all the first day, supervising the servants, as preparations began for Christmas night. My presence wasn't wanted, and they didn't know whether to heed or disregard my instructions.

Nonetheless, once all was in place, Foxworth Hall looked splendidly festive, as ever. The mosaic marble and furniture in the foyer was impeccably polished. The tree, hung with dozens of hand-carved ornaments, was to be placed in a corner of the foyer. The banisters of the staircases were laced with ropes of greenery. Pots of poinsettias lined the foyer, holly decorated the mantelpieces, and the silver punch bowl with twenty-four matching cups stood on the refectory table.

I visited Millicent the next day, arriving in the late afternoon, in time to watch what Millicent termed "my stories,"-that day's installment of The Edge of Night. I never read fiction anymore, but I sometimes looked at soap operas.

"I know you'll love Victor Carlson." she predicted, and I did. She talked of the machinations of Edge's characters as though she knew them personally.

At sixty-three, due to failing eyesight, Millicent had retired and closed her shop. She now lived on the outskirts of Charlottesville, in a small cottage, filled with the same plain, mission-style furniture she'd owned ever since the 'thirties. Her sole concession to holiday decorating was a small Stone Pine on a corner table.

"I suppose it's a sign that I'm getting old." I told her. "It struck me today how infrequently I've gone anywhere-even into Charlottesville-in the last few years. It's so much busier than it used to be, and I scarcely know where to find any of the places I remember."

"So much expansion has taken place, since the war." she agreed. "I never go in now, except to visit Caroline."

"I remember when I first came here, most of the streets had those dusty board sidewalks, a few streets were brick-paved. To me, it seemed very rural."

"I've never been up north, but it must have been quite an adjustment for you, as a young bride." she said. "And you're so isolated out there where you live, too. I don't know how you stand it."

"I used to wish Malcolm would agree to move into town. There's a beautiful old house on Rugby Road I imagined we'd buy. I noticed today that it's been converted into apartments. I can't imagine anyone will want to live there; they're probably horrible little places."

"Possibly, Olivia, the people who live there can't afford anything else." she said.

"Oh, well... But all those beautiful old houses have been ruined."

"Shame." said Millicent. "But it's good business for the owners of those houses."

"How is Caroline?" I asked. Millicent's daughter was thoughtful enough to send us a card every Christmas, although I probably had not seen her in eight or ten years.

We talked about Millicent's grandchildren, now numbering four. Her daughter, Caroline, talked of having another child, even-as Millicent put it-at her "advanced age."

"I'd have thought her age would have freed her from such considerations, by now." said Millicent.

"Surely, she'll not have reached the change yet, at forty-three." I said. "I was fifty-five."

"I had an operation after Caroline's birth, so I don't know about that, but remembering what Mother went through, my escaping it all was a stroke of very good luck." Millicent chuckled, "Mother was more upset about my operation than I was. I think she believed I'd lose my looks then, at twenty."

"You were lucky." I told her. The cessation of my menses hadn't happened all at once, and one of the more troublesome symptoms, insomnia, had afflicted me for an entire year.

Our conversation turned back to Millicent's daughter.

"Caroline hated being an only child," said Millicent. "and she never got over losing that second baby to whooping cough, so she surrounds herself with as much family as she can. She searched out Frank's people a few years back; did I tell you? She visits them every summer."

"How nice for her." I said.

"You would think so, but she's all the more preoccupied with what doesn't concern her. She's grasping at straws, just to create connections and a history for herself." she sighed. "Olivia, I'm too old to carry on a feud with my daughter."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Every time we speak, lately, she's spitting wasps. Carrie wants ownership of that little house in Belmont, because it was her grandmother's. It's not in a nice area; she wouldn't want to live there, but suddenly, it's become all-important."

I nodded.

"It is necessary to sell it, Olivia, to pay for Isabel's medical care."

"Hasn't she family of her own who might help with that?" I asked, carefully.

Millicent shook her head.

"I don't want to have to use my own savings; I've always planned so carefully. The trouble is that I'm the only one who plans. There isn't a hint of frugality in any of them. It's up to me. Carrie's husband doesn't understand why we should be responsible for Isabel."

Surely, this would not long be an issue; Miss Bertram must be over ninety, and was very ill. I wished I knew how to offer help without causing offense, for I could easily cover the cost of nursing home expenses. I would give the matter some thought, and perhaps after all, Millicent would accept my assistance, with quiet grace-that would be like her.

The topic moved on to lighter matters. We talked of people we knew of in common. Millicent passed on the latest harmless gossip, as she fed her dog the breadcrusts from her sandwich.

At seven o'clock, realizing I was probably keeping Millicent from her dinner, I said my good-byes.

"I wish you weren't living so far away." she said, as she handed over my coat and walked with me to the door.

"I know." I said softly.

"Don't be away too long."

"I'll be here through the week." I said. "If you'd like to come to the Hall one afternoon, I'd like the company."

But that never happened. Corinne had returned while I was out, and she waylaid me as soon as I entered the foyer.

"Mother! Oh, thank God you're here!"


	16. Confession

Chapter 23

CONFESSION

"Opinion is a flitting thing,  
But Truth, outlasts the Sun-  
If then we cannot own them both-  
Possess the oldest one." - Emily Dickinson

 

Corinne stood in an archway entrance to one of the rooms off the foyer, clutching a wine glass. She wore, doubled upon itself to form two strands, the gleaming opera-length pearls which had become her signature piece, and was nervously twisting the necklace.

I walked slowly toward Corinne, my only remaining child. I couldn't hate her, completely. My feelings toward my daughter were a confusing mixture of affection, sadness, and disappointment, and more that I didn't care to analyze. We had been through too much turmoil for ours to be a simple relationship.

There was a room full of people with her, which included Bartholomew. I scanned their faces quickly, just enough to see that I didn't know them, and turned  
back to Corinne, drawing her out into the foyer. Bartholomew smiled and nodded a silent greeting to me, then turned back to his companion. No one took  
special notice of Mrs. Winslow's departure.

"Who are all of these people?"

"They're friends of ours, from South Carolina."

"I do hope you're not planning to let them stay."

"I didn't ask you here to discuss that." said Corinne, impatiently. She began to twist her pearls once more, casting her eyes downward, not meeting  
my gaze. "It's about the children. I received a court summons from South Carolina-"

"Court!"

"Keep your voice down, Mother! Come into the dining room, where we won't be disturbed."

We entered the dining room, and I shut the glass-paneled pocket doors, blocking out the din of voices and laughter from the other room. There was a narrow  
L-shaped hallway connecting the kitchen and dining room, and I checked that those doors were closed as well. Corinne turned to me immediately.

"Mother, you must help me! Tell me what to do. I've been sick with worry." she pleaded, her frantic state evident in the new lines on her face.

"It's a little late to be worrying."

She looked as if she might cry--a wasted performance, for I had become immune to her tears.

"You're as heartless as Malcolm was! I should have known you wouldn't care."

"I'm here, aren't I? I have other obligations, but I am here. Didn't Bartholomew inform you that I arrived yesterday?"

"I just got home, and we had this dinner party planned, which I'd forgotten about." she said.

"Corinne, is it true that John Amos has left Foxworth Hall?"

"John? I don't want to talk about John now!"

She sighed heavily, resigned, when she saw I intended to have an answer.

"He left last week. I don't know where he went; I didn't ask. I do my best to avoid him. Mother, I have a serious problem! Why are you concerned about John  
at a time like this?"

"Does Bartholomew know anything about the summons?"

"No, of course he doesn't know!"

"Try to calm yourself. Where are these papers? I'll need to see them." I said, coming to the point and hoping to avoid an hysterical scene.

"They're upstairs. I'll get them."

As I waited, one of the maids hurried over to me.

"Mrs. Foxworth, there's a phone call for you. The caller says it's an emergency."

I felt a chill of apprehension. Any phone call I received here could only be bad news.

Minutes later as I hung up the phone, and sipped the tea Sarah had provided, though I had been informed of the facts, I felt I was no closer to understanding what had happened in my absence. I needed to return home as quickly as possible, and this presented a problem. Corinne and Bartholomew didn't retain a permanent driver, and when I inquired about getting a taxi, I was told the wait would be several hours.

I went in search of Bartholomew, but was intercepted by Corinne, papers in hand.

"I don't have time to look at that now. Ask Bartholomew if he will drive me to the airport."

"Tonight? In this weather?"

"Yes! Of course tonight!" I leaned against the china cabinet for support. Corinne stared. "I have obligations."

"What obligations, Mother? You see we have guests. I can't ask Bart to-"

"Just minutes ago, you told me that John Amos had left Foxworth Hall for good, that he wanted nothing more to do with us. I've just learned that isn't true.  
If you must know, that phone call was about him. He broke into my house tonight and vandalized the place."

"Well, you can stay here." she said.

"I cannot stay, as I've told you. I must go back to New London."

"I haven't seen you so flustered since Malcolm... was in the hospital."

"Yes," I admitted. "he is."

She looked startled only for a moment.

"You're taking this well. You knew, and you told John Amos!" I accused, but she shook her head,  
denying it. "Do you know what he's done to your father?"

She expressed no concern, no curiosity.

"I wondered why you left here so abruptly after the children... So, the two of you are hiding from John Amos," an ironic smile touched her lips. "and you  
call me crazy, Mother? All I've ever done was what you asked. I went along with your schemes-"

"That's enough!" There was a silence during which I tried to calm myself. "I can explain everything to you later, about your father."

Honestly, I didn't think she cared much. By the end, she and Malcolm had, at best,  
tolerated each other, although one had to know them well to see that anything was amiss; they both maintained a pretense of affection.

Malcolm still loved her, even if it was a transient love, but as much as he wanted to, he could not trust her again. A barrier remained between them despite  
all she did to try and regain his favor. He could not forget that it was necessity, not affection, which had brought his daughter home.

"Don't worry." I said in a brittle tone, thinking I knew what was in her mind. "If you stay silent about it, you can keep your inheritance."

Myriad expressions crossed her face in rapid succession, and I couldn't read them.

"You've done this to keep John away from you." Corinne stated.

"John Amos was blackmailing us." I said. I hadn't planned to explain now, but I found myself telling her.

"One evening, I overheard a conversation between John and Malcolm, in which it was made plain to me that Malcolm had known for some time about your children."

"When did he find out?"

"I don't know, precisely. Malcolm may have suspected something, before John Amos told him. Malcolm says he didn't believe John--not at first."

"Christmas." she mumbled, and grew very pale, her eyes darting away like those of a guilty child.

Before going on, I glanced through the etched glass to be sure no one was close enough to overhear.

"My guess is that by telling him, John tried to undermine your relationship with your father, and also the tenuous connection Malcolm and I had built after  
the boys died. We've had some rough patches over the years. It's always been very... complicated."

She leaned forward, listening, her hands finally stilled.

"I never told you, Corinne, but it was John Amos's idea all along to lock up your children, supposedly to spare your father the scandal."

"You and Malcolm care for appearances, but John does not." said Corinne. "That was not his motive."

I scarcely took notice of this, for what could Corinne know of John's thoughts?

"Apparently, Malcolm's reaction to the news wasn't as John Amos wished. He ordered John Amos to leave Foxworth, once he fully realized John's schemes."  
I summarized. "Malcolm had seen John for what he was from the start--sly, untrustworthy. Your father tried to tell me, in the beginning."

Corinne nodded, perhaps remembering when she was a girl, and the disagreements caused at the time by my decision to bring John Amos to Foxworth Hall.

"I thought John's intentions toward us were honorable, and Malcolm's initial negative impression of him changed, as you know. We needed to believe what  
he told us."

If she suspected that I omitted details from my story, she didn't comment.

"So what could have changed all of that?"

"It was the way he spoke to Malcolm, the way he spoke of me. I can't forgive or excuse it." I said, not willing to repeat my cousin's insulting words. "Malcolm  
insisted that he leave. John refused, threatening to expose our secrets, if we forced the issue."

I stil had her rapt attention.

"The only way to defeat John was to have him believe Malcolm  
died. Malcolm was already unwell, his health compromised by that illness he had the September before--when you and Bartholomew were away in Vermont--so it was believable. And," I took a breath. "I didn't  
think your father had much time left, anyway."

"But how did you do it, Mother?" she asked, incredulous. "There are always the servants coming and going. They report everything that goes on here, to John."

"John Amos seldom accompanied us to church on Sundays, especially not if we went to an early service."

She nodded.

"We counted on that, and I had it given out that Malcolm suffered another attack that morning on the way to church, and was rushed to the hospital, again.  
Everything went smoothly. The story was credible, and it worked. I had him moved to a hospital in Maryland, where he spent several months.  
Then his health worsened, and I was sure he would die, and I could not be there because... because of your children. When they escaped, I was free, myself, to leave Foxworth Hall."

"Damn him!" she burst out. "He's inhuman!" she said through clenched teeth, her face a mask of rage such as I'd never seen in her before. In her hysterical  
tones I heard traces of a mad woman approaching her breaking point. "Is he satisfied now that he's destroyed any chance of happiness I could have?"

It took a moment to realize she was talking about Malcolm, and not John.

"And you! You never would say a word to help me, to try and change his mind."

"Why should I? You deserve all that you've gotten, Corinne. Your father almost died, because of your selfishness. How can you expect me to have sympathy for you,  
or even to care for you, after that? You expect the impossible."

"I don't know why I ever expected anything from you. You were never a true mother to me, and Malcolm was never much of a father."

What did she mean by that? Had she somehow guessed the truth of her parentage?

"Neither of you ever really loved me, you only pretended to, as long as what I did fit into his plans, and met with your approval. When we were children,  
Malcolm never once said he loved Mal and Joel, and he never said it to me; he only asked if I loved HIM."

"For heaven's sake! It didn't need to be spoken."

"Just once, it did! Malcolm doesn't know how to love, so of course he couldn't understand what I felt for Christopher."

"From where have you suddenly gotten such preposterous ideas? I suppose you think you've gained some remarkable insight." I said, with a sneer.

"You may mock me, but I had fifteen good years with Christopher, and they were such a contrast from the years when I lived here, as a girl. They were so uncomplicated."

Her deliberate use of the same word I'd chosen to describe my own marriage didn't escape me. Was she implying that she'd had fifteen years of happiness,  
while I'd had none? It would be like her to try and make such a point, and it only showed how little she really knew, but it still rankled, and it still  
hurt. Not all marriages are the same, and not all people expect the same things from marriage. The inside of a marriage is often very different from the  
picture that those on the outside of it see.

Despite what Corinne said about her life with Christopher, I assume this was also true in their case. She told me once that he spent weekends at home, and  
was away working during the week. Did she truly believe he had been faithful to her during those week-nights away? I didn't.

Perhaps I am cynical and suspicious by nature, but I am also realistic; I can't believe that a man wouldn't be tempted to stray, when the opportunity is  
so often at hand. According to Malcolm, (and countless gossiping busy-bodies I'd known) such base behavior is commonplace. Even Garland--elevated nearly  
to sainthood as he was by the esteem of decent women--had been suspected of making secret visits to a local woman of accommodating nature. Whispers of  
this sort had gone around after the birth of Christopher. Malcolm had delighted in the knowledge that, if he chose, he could lend credence to the rumor  
by making it known that Garland and Alicia had ceased to share a bedroom by that point.

I have few reasons to believe that Garland's second son was any better in this respect than his father and his half-brother. Still, it couldn't have been  
easy being married to Corinne. She can be selfish and demanding. She thinks first of her own happiness,  
which is why they were in so much debt by the time Christopher died. I often wonder how a daughter of mine could turn out the way she has, as if I've had  
no influence on her at all.

"Christopher loved me without condition."

"No one loves unconditionally, Corinne, no one."

She went on, as if I had not spoken, only hearing what she wanted to hear, as usual.

"Chris didn't expect perfection, as you and Malcolm did. You expected perfection from each other, and from us--your children. Chris accepted me as I am."

"Then he was a fool." I snapped, impatient with her smug attitude, and with hearing about this fairy tale marriage she had built up in her own memory.

"Why? Because he chose love over money? Money has always been most important in this family, even to you, Mother."

"And to you. Don't try to pretend otherwise. Your sainted Christopher was shortsighted and foolish to throw away his name and education, an education we paid for, for which  
he never had the courtesy to repay us."

"It wasn't Christopher who insisted on going to Yale,  
Mother. If Malcolm hadn't been trying so hard to replace Mal-"

It wasn't often anymore that the boys' names were spoken. My look of shock brought her up short.

"How dare you say such a thing! No one--not even your precious Christopher--could EVER take the place of my son." I said. She stepped back as if I'd threatened  
to strike her. "You understand so little."

"I understand all I need to about you and my father. I thought about it during the fifteen years I was away from here, and never heard from my parents.  
I wondered how you could turn your back on your only remaining child. And I thought about how you could have helped us in the beginning,  
Mother. You could have talked to Malcolm. Was that too much to ask?"

"After all I've done for you, after all I've risked, you don't even have enough respect and gratitude to-" I began, quietly, flatly, intending  
not so much an accusation, as a statement of disbelief.

"All you've done?"

"I gave you a home again when you had nothing. Make no mistake, Corinne, if not for me, your father would not have allowed you back into this house after  
you and that... that man you ran off with-" I stopped to catch my breath, I was becoming too upset. "after the two of you--with your immoral and indecent  
behavior--caused Malcolm's heart attack."

"Oh, I'm so tired of hearing that! It's all I've heard from you for the last four years. You're as heartless as Malcolm is, and just as  
unreasonable!"

"Believe what you will, Corinne." I said, with forced patience. "We did our best."

"Your best?" Her exclamation was disdainful. "From the first day I returned here, Malcolm never failed to remind me of my sins. He never had any intention  
of forgiving me."

Her voice grew louder and more shrill with each word she spoke to skew and exaggerate the truth. All of the meekness she usually used to such advantage  
had melted away.

"Malcolm Neal Foxworth is the only one in this family allowed to make mistakes, and then to be forgiven, isn't that right? If anyone else makes even the  
smallest mistake, they are tainted forever; they are immoral, as you constantly remind me."

"Small!" I exclaimed. "You call the unwholesome, impure relationship you carried on, a SMALL mistake?"

"Is it right for a father, looking on, to order his grown daughter to be stripped and whipped? And you complied, as if it was the most natural request, ever!  
Is that moral behavior,  
Mother?"

"That's quite enough, Corinne."

"In God's eyes, is that acceptable for a father toward a daughter, or even for a husband and wife?" she asked pointedly.

Her words were like physical blows. She tried to shame me, but I held my ground, keeping my stance, tall and assured as ever.

"When this hysterical outburst is quite over," I said scathingly, "I shall be better able to talk to you."

She took a step away.

"You were given everything, Corinne. You were loved. You can't contradict that. Whatever happened later, you brought upon yourself. It wasn't all my fault, but if it eases your conscience to believe otherwise, then continue to cling to your own half truths, by all means." I paused for breath. "Tell me, where is your oldest daughter? Is she as unforgiving toward you as you are now, of me? Or are you still rejecting her, still denying that you have a daughter? At least I never did that; I never denied my own flesh and blood."

She flinched. With an expression of fury such as I'd not known her capable, she delivered her response, her answer to my condemnation of her. The rose-sprigged china shattered, the dark liquid leaving a stain on the white cuff of my sleeve as the cup was knocked from my hand.

A second before I felt the sting of her slap, I saw what she would do. Something that had blocked memories buried deep in my consciousness gave way. Suddenly,  
Corinne seemed very tall, but then, I wasn't seeing Corinne at all. I was seeing another woman's face in another time, in a place scented with candlewax  
and camphor, a place which existed only in my suppressed memories of early childhood, which was--until now--the last time anyone had lifted a hand against me in such a way.

I saw again a dim chintz and lace parlor, lighted by carcel lamps. I heard the husky voice of Kathleen Winfield, my grandmother. I saw her standing over  
me, her face contorted by hate that only I ever witnessed, and no one else believed. Her eyes were so like my father's eyes, but lacked warmth. Her high  
cheekbones were like my own, though she wouldn't see the resemblance. Her hazel eyes smoldered with anger as she held up a lighted candle in her  
hand, its flames dancing too close to my long hair. She relished my fear, even as she scolded and ridiculed me for it.

I'd spent five summers in Yarmouth Port with her, before she perished, the winter of my eighth birthday. It was the start of the new century, but it was not  
to be a new beginning for me, for by then she had managed to undermine the foundation of my self-confidence.

"People will have no use for a sniveling, ill-tempered,  
weakling." she assured me, and she certainly had no use for her only grandchild, who should have been a son for her only son. She could find no kindness  
to offer an awkward, "worthless" red-haired child who preferred the books to people. She could see nothing lovely, promising or endearing in me, and I believed  
what she slyly uttered, when my parents were not present. She told me what they never would say because they loved me, and love kept people from being truthful,  
she claimed.

Somehow, the messages she instilled had an impact, despite the opposite influence of my parents. What good was an educated, opinionated girl, after all?  
Could she get and keep a husband? The answer was that I could expect nothing from my miserable life. I was not especially pretty, not sweet, not worthy,  
and I was advised to make myself useful in some other way, so as not to be a burden to my father.

"An industrious spinster can be an asset to her family. Heaven knows no man will ever marry you, Olivia, no man of substance and good breeding."

And then there were the "accidents" that I could not manage to avoid while staying with her. Her cruelty was subtle,  
and I was never sure myself whether I had merely been clumsy--as she said in response to my mother's frantic questions--or if my various injuries were  
caused with purpose.

That was what "Grandmother" meant to me.

Greater damage had been done to Corinne's children. Perhaps I did deserve to be called "Grandmother." Her ghost had been there throughout my life--when I'd married so  
hastily, each time I hadn't spoken up to defend myself, and when I turned away from a Christmas gift with a card that read: "To Grandmother, from Chris,  
Cathy, Cory and Carrie." The irony was that I hadn't remembered her at all until now, after Corinne's children escaped, but it wouldn't have mattered.  
I had only myself to blame for what I'd done, not John Amos, not Kathleen Winfield.

I cringed, the horror of what this memory meant crashing in upon me. It hadn't all been John Amos' doing--the brainwashing, the censure, the pattern I recognized  
now as a vicious circle of unjust blame and hatred. But my feet had been set on this path long ago, and it was no use trying to turn away now.

Corinne watched me with a small smile of triumph that I just couldn't endure.

"You are mad, Corinne. There is madness in your family; one of your aunts was locked away in a lunatic asylum, which is where you undoubtedly belong."

"An aunt?" she was perplexed. I smiled coldly.

"You and Malcolm had no siblings." she said, thinking she'd caught me in a lie.

"We adopted you. Your father wanted another child."

"So why didn't you-" she stopped abruptly, and I was glad to be spared the need to answer the tactless question she seemed on the verge of asking. I knew  
by her next question that she didn't yet believe my story. "But Mother, I've seen pictures from the year I was born, and you obviously were-"

"I miscarried." I said shortly. I could easily imagine the scenario forming in Corinne's mind as she considered what she'd heard.

"It was all a very long time ago." I added unnecessarily, dismissing the subject. I was still seething. "I never thought I would say this to you, but I am  
glad you are not our natural daughter."

"Not your daughter?" she mumbled, still disbelieving.

"Your biological parents were Garland and Alicia Foxworth."

Her eyes expressed blank incomprehension, then filled with dawning horror. She staggered backward and fell into a chair.

"Then Christopher and I... Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you stop us from marrying?"

"We tried, as you may recall."

"You did not try!" she lashed out. "Neither of you told us! It is your fault, the two of you."

"You believed he was your uncle, and that should have been sufficient to keep you from engaging in improper relations. It should have been enough to keep  
the two of you apart." I said.

"You just can't stand to see anyone happy because neither of you has ever been happy. Isn't that the truth of why you felt it necessary to punish me? And  
Malcolm is still punishing me, even when he's gone, whether he's dead or not. Or was that codicil your idea, Mother? He didn't think of adding it until  
just a few days before he died... left."

"I didn't know about it until the reading of his will." I insisted.

She might not believe me, but I would admit to nothing more.

Malcolm had been concerned about her; even as he made plans to depart Foxworth Hall, he worried about leaving Corinne here, with John. I still felt some bitterness, remembering  
that. I had finally broken my long silence, that night; I gave him Alicia's letter, which pre-dated the letter in which she'd asked us to aid Christopher, and I told him that Corinne wasn't his daughter. Malcolm must have added the codicil subsequent to hearing what I had to say, so perhaps I was indirectly responsible.  
But I would not tell Corinne any of this, for the same reasons I hadn't told her years ago that she was Alicia's daughter.

A tap on the glass of the dining room door interrupted our conversation.

"Mrs. Foxworth, your taxi is waiting, and I've already taken your suitcase down."

"Wait!" Corinne exclaimed, grabbing my arm as I started to leave. She held up the papers. "What should I do about this?"

"What you always do in a tough situation, Corinne. Do nothing."

I rushed out into the night and to the car that would take me away from this house of memories, and Corinne's histrionics, to the airport, and closer to home. The driver, pressed by me  
to hurry, swerved to avoid an approaching car as we turned out of the long driveway. Corinne had a busy evening ahead, and it looked like her guests were  
still arriving.

Corinne would have to put on a brave front, but by tomorrow, I was sure she'd be rejoicing in the fact that she was not our daughter. I tried to convince  
myself of that, but I knew better. To receive such news must be greatly shocking. Despite the enmity between us, I had never meant her to know that particular  
secret. Already, I regretted telling her, and regretted the way in which I'd done it. I should never have thoughtlessly blurted it out in anger.

I settled back in my seat for the short drive to Earlysville. Images of Malcolm, near death, kept flashing through my mind, crowding out the thoughts of  
Corinne and the problem of her children. Even if Malcolm was unconscious, I couldn't let him die alone, among strangers.

"Here you are. Want help with that suitcase?" the driver cut into my thoughts. Where would I be tonight without the assistance of kindly strangers? I was  
grateful for his help, as this was to be my first flight, and I was unaware of the procedures. But I felt calm as I finally boarded the plane.  
I would be home soon.


	17. To Even the Score

Chapter 24

TO EVEN THE SCORE

"A worthless person, a wicked man, is the one who walks with a perverse mouth, who with perversity in his heart, continually devises evil, who spreads strife.  
Therefore, his calamity will come suddenly;  
instantly he will be broken and there will be no healing." Proverbs 6:12-15

Malcolm wheeled himself to the divan, and settled onto it in one careful movement. The sound decreased by degrees, then went silent, as he switched off the radio, closing the mahogany cabinet which housed it and a seldom used gramophone. He'd already heard the highlights of the news-had been listening to it all day, having tired of the nonsensical programming on the television. He retrieved the novel he had been reading, and was so quickly absorbed by an intricate espionage plot, that he failed to hear the sound of footsteps in the leaves.

The skulking intruder progressed slowly through the grove of mountain laurel separating the Winfield property from the adjacent one, and circled the house twice, noting with satisfaction the cracked flagstones near the front gate. A dark form peered into windows and tested for unlocked doors. The frosted, diamond-pattern window-pane in the back door made it impossible to see whether anyone was in the kitchen, but the absence of light convinced the intruder that his entry would be unnoticed.

The house was quiet, the depth of the silence unsettling. Malcolm doubted if he'd ever spent a single night completely alone. From his childhood on, there had been servants, if no one else, and in later years, his wife and children; when away from home, there were fellow travelers and strangers.

Presently, a scraping sound, which Malcolm couldn't identify, arrested his attention. What he had heard, Malcolm decided, was the house settling; old houses made mysterious noises; these were sounds with which he was accustomed.

He envisioned Olivia arriving unexpectedly, as she had done, weeks before, in her customary Quaker plain dress, the scent of lavender and of home on her clothes. Even hearing nothing, if she walked through any of the downstairs rooms, he could have immediately identified her step and location through particular vibrations of the sitting room floor. It wasn't possible that she could be back in New England so soon, however.

Malcolm reached for his book. He'd reread the same paragraph twice, but hadn't retained what he'd read. Putting the book aside, he closed his eyes for a few minutes. He would rest, then find something to eat. Being alone for a good part of the day, he seemed to do a lot of eating and sleeping. It passed the time.

Had he been alert, Malcolm would have become aware of a man's stealthy footsteps moving through the kitchen, and the creak of the door adjoining the dining room as it was pushed open. But he didn't, nor did he see the shadow moving across that room and into the entryway, past the coat closet and the stairway. He didn't see it pause as, laying a hand on the square newel post, the man considered going up to the second floor rooms. Instead, the intruder passed the front door and stopped, lurking just around the corner, waiting.

Aware of the sensation of being watched, Malcolm was startled awake. When his eyes focused, in the late evening light, his heart faltered. There was a figure in the doorway, and Malcolm recognized the intruder as evil itself-John Amos Jackson.

The sight of Malcolm was so unexpected, that at first, the deep shock rendered John speechless. The man was supposed to be underground!

John was taken aback by the presence of one other than the person he expected to find, and by less important differences in the parlor, as well. The red and blue carpet he remembered lay in a different position. The old blue damask chairs had been replaced by new chairs, and the lamps' dangling prisms sent opaline refracted light to play off unfamiliar objects that had never inspired his ire or envy, but which did so now. Confusion held him in indecision for a moment, then he altered his plan.

Malcolm gasped, at first disbelieving what he saw, but it was no mistake, no specter from a bad dream. John Amos was real, and he came forward with a fixed, malevolent stare.

"Well, what have we here?" said John, showing an almost toothless, gleeful grin. "The great Malcolm Foxworth without his keeper and protectress-without his very right-hand-"

"My God! How did you get in?" Malcolm's anger flared, then receded as he saw a strange malicious light in John's dark eyes.

"Through the basement. Securing the house is apparently not one of your highest priorities."

"What do you want?" Malcolm heard his own voice as thin, and aggravatingly shaky-the voice of an old man.

"I want to know why you both lied. I can only guess that it was HER scheme? All women lie and deceive, while pretending to be victims. It is a way of ensnaring men, who don't know women are in league with the devil."

The man is undeniably mad, thought Malcolm.

"Do you know how I found you?" John continued with relish. "It was fairly easy. There aren't many places she'd be likely to go-Olivia isn't very imaginative. I thought this house had been sold years ago. There isn't a Foxworth or Winfield listed in the directory, but there is a Trowbridge. If not for that, I wouldn't have known she'd come back here. She isn't half as clever as she thinks she is. You should tell her so, if you ever see her again."

Malcolm's panic grew, as John spoke. He could see the man's mind was unhinged. He hoped there would soon be some distraction, something to divert John's attention. Why didn't the doorbell ring? Malcolm willed the telephone to ring. When it didn't, a horrible possibility occurred to him.

"Where is Olivia? What have you done?"

"Yes, where IS Olivia?" asked John, as he looked about, though he now felt sure she wasn't in the house.

The very thought of Olivia kindled the heat of John's rage anew, each time he remembered the afternoon of the reading of Malcolm's will, the shock he had received, and the stifled amusement of all who had been present. His cousin had lowered her head, but not quickly enough to hide her smirk when it was revealed that John's sole inheritance from Malcolm was to be an old, tattered Bible! John hadn't the courage to raise the subject with her, but despite the brief glimpse he'd had of her surprised expression, he could not believe that she hadn't known of this humiliating joke. Now the Foxworths would pay; they must be punished severely.

Malcolm reached for his cane, but John got to it first, then stepped forward and pushed the wheelchair out of reach. The chair rolled into a small table, and its contents spilled onto the floor. Mail-order catalogs scattered, a lamp swayed precariously, and a heavy silver candlestick toppled from the corner of a nearby bookcase.

Malcolm's apprehension escalated to fear, as he realized he was virtually trapped.

"How does it feel to be helpless, when you once had everything?" mused John Amos, as if reading Malcolm's mind. "But then, you were never as strong as you presumed yourself to be. If you were, you wouldn't have failed in your God-given duty to keep your wife under strict control. Instead, you are thoroughly under her thumb."

"Get out of my house."

"YOUR house?" John Amos sneered. "You are in charge of nothing; you are a helpless cripple, a burden, and Olivia hates you, you know. She used to confide everything to me, and she despised you from the start. She only married you for your wealth." continued John Amos, smiling, as he saw Malcolm's hands clinch into fists. The old man was not so invincible, after all, and John wondered what quality in him provoked such admiration and respect from everyone, even from John himself.

Emulating Malcolm's attitudes and habits had given John a sense of power. Now he tapped into that power.

It was so easy to manipulate Malcolm into a rage. John wondered if this would cause another heart attack. He imagined the man writhing in agony on the floor, and he imagined himself spitting on him, and walking away, as he had been unable to do on the day of Malcolm's first heart attack.

Since the beginning of the time in the mid 1930's when Olivia had begun to correspond regularly with him, John had attempted to undermine the Foxworths' dependence on each other. He thought shifting Olivia's capacity for devotion to religion might accomplish this, and he delighted in the fact that he caused tension between Malcolm and Olivia by introducing faith in God into her life. He knew of Malcolm's impatience with his wife's eagerness to learn, but John's encouragements paid off. She began to look to him for advice and guidance. A sweet turn of events, it was, but he never let go of his watchful wariness.

"That is the way of all nonbelievers, Olivia. The devil will try many tactics to turn you from the true path, but you must resist him." he advised her. "You must be strong. You must pray that God will enlighten Malcolm, before it is too late."

"Yes." she had written in response. "You are right. I am thankful God has sent you to me."

When Olivia invited John Amos to remain at the mansion permanently, offering him two rooms in the servants' quarters to use as his own apartment, he'd believed he was making real progress. With few exceptions, she took his claims of divine knowledge, and most of his opinions quite seriously. Power emanated from the Foxworths, yet they were surprisingly easy to influence. This had not been true of their daughter, however.

How John wished he had been the one to whom Corinne had turned her eyes upon and given herself. Because he had told her these untruths, Corinne believed he was younger than was his actual age, and that he was only a third cousin to Olivia.

He had watched Corinne for three years, waiting for a chance to influence her, to mold her into the compliant partner he wished her to be, in his scheme to become part of the Foxworth empire.

John's resentment of the Foxworths deepened into hatred the day Malcolm forced Corinne to leave forever with Christopher, although John soon saw this in the light of an advantage to himself.

But as Olivia learned to oversee Malcolm's investments and businesses, and because of Malcolm's illness, it became necessary for them to spend more time together. Their growing faith became a common passion, rather than a dividing point, just at the time when they had no remaining heir, and John's plans might have-so easily-fallen into place.

Clearly, while she lived, Olivia would never give him the kind of financial freedom he aspired to; the kind of privileged life she took for granted would never be his. He loathed having to be subservient to his cousin and her husband, a man immanently consumed with his own self-importance. The tone of confidence with which Malcolm Foxworth spoke was meant to remind his listener of the greater merit of his words.

"Olivia enumerated to me what occurred, and the nature of the threats you made, on the morning she left Virginia. You'll say anything... This is all about money." stated Malcolm, as he watched John's greedy gaze slide around the room. "Keep your lives free from the love of money, and be content with what you have. Is that not what it says in Hebrews?" taunted Malcolm.

Ignoring this blasphemy, John shoved open the double doors to the den, letting in the chill from that unheated room, as he strode to the desk in the den and returned with three oval-framed pictures. His mocking tones drowned out Malcolm's voice.

"How touching that you still keep these." John's scornful voice rasped. "Sentiment is usually characteristic of women."

One picture was of the three Foxworth children, on the occasion of Corinne's fifth birthday. Another was of Olivia, in Sunday dress, posed with her parents. Even as a young girl, his cousin was unsmiling, composed, and so sure of her right to her privileged world-not unlike her daughter, thought John. There had always been money, so much of it that it had ceased to have any value. They had always had whatever they desired, simply for the asking.

"That meddlesome woman has ruined my plans, and she'll have to pay."

"What are you planning?"

"I told my son all about the whole selfish lot of you," John continued, in a deranged, monotonous way.

"You married, then?" inquired Malcolm, though he was not much interested, only hoped to keep John talking long enough to forestall further action.

"I avoided that state of bondage." said John. "But I have a son. You didn't know that, did you? He is as blond and blue-eyed as any Foxworth. That was fortunate. I've told him all about your family. He will get revenge if I cannot. He will get the share of the money I deserve."

"There will be no money for you." Malcolm reminded him, but John seemed not to hear.

"In time, my son will go to Foxworth Hall, and claim to be your son, Joel." John explained, delighted with the brilliance of his own plan.

"I don't believe you have a son."

"He is four years younger than Joel. My son was born during the years when my dear cousin could not be bothered to write a letter." John insisted, but Malcolm shook his head.

"I don't care whether this story of yours is true or not. You're wasting your time. You'll get nothing from either of us, that hasn't changed. I want an end to this madness. You took advantage of Olivia at every turn, and you will not do it again."

"I did nothing more than you'd already done yourself." John interjected.

"From the first day I met you, I recognized you for the unprincipled wastrel that you are. It was a mistake to let Olivia convince me to trust you."

"You're not the genius you've convinced most people you are, letting that old bitch make decisions for you. I told you the truth, and still-"

"Truth?" Malcolm scoffed. The mendacious fiend had the nerve to speak of truth! He thought of using some of John's own tools of manipulation against the man, namely, God's imminent vengeance, but he was afraid it might make matters worse. He wasn't sure if John's theomaniacal beliefs were genuine, but if so, that was all the more frightening, for it would mean John felt vindicated in all he had done. "To what "truth" do you refer?"

"Corinne's children. I told you they were keeping them upstairs. Olivia lied to you, and still, you trust her!"

"She is my family." Malcolm said simply.

John glared. There was a pause as they both remembered the September of Corinne's marriage to Bartholomew Winslow. It had been a turning point in all of their lives.

For Malcolm, the memory was a vague one. Had it been late summer-August? Or was it September? The last half of 1959 had drifted by in a blur of medicated half-consciousness, remembered only for the discomfort of the probing by doctors with loud voices and cold instruments, and his own longing to escape it all, to be taken home and left in peace. But there was no peace, for Malcolm had made a rather miraculous recovery, after having been perilously close to death, that autumn.

Shortly after the Winslows left Virginia for their honeymoon trip, Malcolm was rushed to the hospital following a collapse which had sent shards of china and the contents of his meal in every direction. He remembered lying there on the dining room rug, silently cursing his traitorous, weak body, and simultaneously wishing that this might finally be the end. Anything would be preferable to enduring what he knew would come next.

"The Lord has pronounced His judgment this day. He will purge the evil that plagues this house, the perfidious and the wicked." intoned John Amos to no one in particular.

Ignoring him, Olivia had dialed for the ambulance. Her face registered alarm, before she lapsed into an innate calm efficiency that made it possible to attend to gravely critical matters, while everyone else, including John, stood about, gaping, inept, witless fools that they were.

It occurred to Malcolm that the day of his passing would be very much the same, with no one grieving, his daughter anticipating the freedom her inheritance would mean, and his wife quiet, stone-faced and glassy-eyed, letting John's litany of verses and prayers act as a barricade against the world that might offer false sympathy, or question her too closely.

Eventually, Malcolm knew, they would all be at his bedside in the hospital. He wanted no one, for, even though he knew her to be too timid to dare,  
he half expected Corinne to confront him, if she believed there was little time left. He wasn't ready to hear confessions or make any of his own, and he still believed in the wisdom of his choices.

Olivia's visits were just as unwelcomed, for Olivia would never rid herself of her shadow-her odious cousin. John inevitably trailed along, feeling it necessary to deliver some timely lecture on sin, and the state of souls-though never his own, of course. Malcolm was never sure whether these sermons were directed at himself, at Olivia, or to them both. Closing his eyes, pretending sleep and trying to tune him out was Malcolm's only recourse-not that such a ploy ever stopped John. Malcolm tired of the lectures, and the fanaticism with which John Amos imparted his brand of doom and dire warnings.

For a long time, Malcolm had believed some of what John promoted as God's truth. Malcolm's own guilt, and John's relentless assurances made him want to believe and to find solace in that belief. John Amos seemed always to be lurking nearby when Corinne and Olivia were out of earshot, doing his best to make Malcolm "see the light about deceitful women." John was determined to persuade Malcolm that he should not trust anyone...only he, John, could be trusted.  
By causing all of them to doubt each other, John gained more control, and in turn, greater influence. That must have been his motive for finally telling Malcolm about Corinne's children, as he lay in the hospital.

The man was a hypocrite; Corinne had tried to make him see this. Malcolm, although he had ignored the truth of this, finally had to admit to himself that he had uncovered proof of this in various forms, over the years. His initial impressions had been proven accurate. As a result of John's attentions, how many servant girls had been dismissed, or needed to be paid for their discretion and silence? And, though money might be the root of evil, John Amos suffered no attacks of conscience as he enjoyed the sizable income Olivia saw fit to bestow upon him,  
against Malcolm's wishes. John indulged his every whim, as only a man who has spent most of his life skirting the periphery of, and envying privilege,  
can indulge himself. John Amos was a greedy, dishonest man-perfidious and wicked indeed!-but Olivia refused to see that. She had even begun,  
increasingly, to sound like him. If she spoke at any length, she invariably repeated the drivel that was John's version of religion. But as ever, it was Olivia's quick response and clear-headed reaction which had spared Malcolm's life.

"She is my family." said Malcolm, considering it an adequate explanation.

The gilt mantel clock chimed the half hour with a single, soft bell.

"And that's all?" questioned John, incredulous.

"If you prefer, I'll repeat to you some of the verses with which you counseled me; you see, I did pay attention."

John's eyes flashed, his expression livid, but Malcolm was unable to resist needling him. He thought for a moment, then said with a smirk, "She is more profitable than silver and yields better returns than gold."

"Corrupt!" screamed John. "She has corrupted you; she has made your soul derelict, and you are bound for hell, all because of a sinful alliance with a woman-a daughter of Eve!"

John ranted, fury contorting his face as he began destroying the room-this prim, pretty parlor that symbolized all he envied but had never owned. Doubtless,  
his cousin thought she lived modestly in this smaller house, but even her idea of limitation was, by the standards of most people, luxury! The room was full of things cherished by Olivia, or things she took for granted, and he just as carelessly swept surfaces clean in a fruitless attempt to vent the rage of decades. How he hated her, the rustle of her taffeta skirts, her voice which was so at ease issuing commands, reminding him of his beggarly place.

John Amos glared at the third oval frame which he still held, a small picture immortalizing Mal and Joel from an early Christmas. Although he hadn't really known them, John hated these two the most, the legitimate heirs, effortless inheritors of power and status. Deliberately, the glass was smashed, and shattered slivers fell to the rug. The picture of Malcolm's sons-a picture which could not be replaced-was torn into fragments which floated down to the floor.

"You were going to leave the entirety of not one, but two fortunes to Joel and Mel."

Malcolm didn't correct the mistake. In the unlikely event that a son of John's existed, not knowing a fact as basic as the correct name of Malcolm's son would expose him as a fraud.

Abruptly, John Amos stopped, an idea forming in his twisted mind.

"You think you owe me nothing. Your daughter thinks she's too good for me,"

John Amos found he couldn't even say Corinne's name again. She had rejected his offer of help when he'd come to her before her marriage to Bart Winslow.  
John had suggested a way to eliminate the children (and Olivia-though he didn't reveal that part of his plan.) He had been so certain that Corinne would seize upon the chance, that the promise of freedom would finally win her over, but she was as contemptuous of him as she had been at the tender age of fifteen. He'd had nothing to offer her back then, and now, twenty years later, she was still too stupid to realize that circumstances had changed. She had listened to John's plan of the poisoned doughnuts, but beyond that, she had no use for him.

John walked to the fireplace and back, swinging the iron poker in a high, threatening arc. He swung it in circles, gathering force for the impact, convulsed with mirth, as Malcolm tried to shield his face, though this was a futile gesture.

John had wanted, for years, to see Malcolm Foxworth cower. To find him still living, was extraordinarily good luck. The arrogant, smug, rich bastard...  
he'd kill him! All of John's waiting and scheming was worth his time just to see the terror in Malcolm's eyes, to see the man's confidence collapse, and to know that very soon, the end to the pair of them would be his doing.

John could wait for Olivia. He'd come to Connecticut to finish the murderous plan she had thwarted by leaving Foxworth Hall. But the opportunity at hand now was so much better! It was too bad she wasn't here to watch every second of the torture he intended to inflict upon her faithless husband. But Olivia must surely return soon, and then he would relish their fear as he tortured them until they lost that look of superiority he loathed. Imagine the both of them together here, hiding, mocking him for all the years he'd spent as their servant!

"Side by side they shall lie, in the dust." muttered John, and, still holding the iron implement, let his arm drop, and he turned his back.

Relief flooded through Malcolm, and he began to breathe again, until he understood John's intention. He watched helplessly as John Amos prodded a burning log, nudging it closer and closer to the edge, nearer to the rug. Panic seized Malcolm at the thought that he might die in a fire set by this madman.

Malcolm slid to the floor. It was covered with unavoidable debris, consisting mostly of shards from those damnable crystal figurines Olivia liked-at least the jade ones could not be broken. He endured the sting of the small cuts he received as he painstakingly made his way toward the fireplace. He could do only one thing; it would take too long for him to reach the telephone. Not for the first time, Malcolm inwardly cursed his disabilities, but at least he had the advantage of a sane mind.

John continued his maniacal cackling. Because he was staring with glazed eyes into the flames, he did not see Malcolm, and was caught off guard when the blow came, and he lost his balance. John fell heavily onto the rug, hitting his head. He fell at an odd angle, twisting a knee painfully, babbling a string of profanity.

They struggled violently. It was not behavior Malcolm had stooped to often, but he knew his life was in danger. John Amos was himself slowed by age, though he had the advantage that he could walk away, could deliver breath-stopping kicks. But out of necessity, Malcolm's arms were stronger, and he saw his way out; it was something shiny that he could see out of the corner of one eye. With no time to spare for thought, he took it.

The candlestick slipped in his grip. Blood from his injured forearm soaked his shirt and hands, making what he had to do difficult. Swiftly, Malcolm's other arm swung back, and brought the candlestick down on the back of John's head with a sickening crack. John Amos finally lay still. With the sound resounding in his mind, Malcolm was sure John Amos Jackson had breathed his last. But Malcolm's anger hadn't subsided, and with a force that seemed not to be his own, he struck John twice more before collapsing in exhaustion, stricken aghast by what he'd done.

Malcolm made his way, aching and bleeding, into the den. His wounds left a trail to stain the rug. His breath was labored, and he began to feel excruciating agony in his ribs.

In his own determination to live, Malcolm felt no regret for what he'd done. His voice sounded, to his own ears, hollow and unrecognizable as he requested an ambulance.


	18. Paranoia

Chapter 25

PARANOIA

"I will seek that which was lost, and will bring back that which was driven away, and will bind up that which was broken, and will strengthen that which was sick." - Ezekiel 34:16

The oppression of Foxworth Hall lifted, once I was away, only to be replaced by travel fatigue. The forty-five mile drive between the airport in Providence and New London seemed interminable. Passing the vacant summer houses and Ocean Beach, I was finally approaching home. The cold night air surrounded me, welcoming me back, and the familiar sound of the fog signal from the lighthouse guided the way to what I must do next. I must be as steady and dependable as that light, as always I tried to be.

I did not know exactly what had happened, or if Malcolm's status had changed in the time it took me to get home, so I asked to be taken to the hospital directly. I went at once to the floor to which I was directed.

"I need information about a patient. He was brought in yesterday. The name is Foxworth." I said to the head nurse.

"Are you a relative?"

"I'm Mrs. Foxworth, his wife. What can you tell me?"

"He's been asking for you. Are you Lydia?"

"Olivia."

"He's rather upset, and we had to sedate him."

"The person I spoke to last night said he wasn't conscious, or some such. Why was I misled? Or has there been a mistake?"

"You'll need to talk to Dr. Sedgwick when she comes in later. Your husband will be fine, Mrs. Foxworth. He'll be in pain, and he is on medication to manage it. He'll need to see a psychiatrist, but the doctor will speak to you about that."

It was an appalling suggestion.

"Where is he?"

"Just a moment, please." She produced a thick folder of paperwork. "If you could take a few moments-"

"I haven't the time for that now." I said.

"It says here that you are also the next of kin to another patient, a Mr. Jackson. That must be the reason for the confusion."

"There is no confusion. He is not a relation of mine."

She tried once more to give me the paperwork, but I refused it.

"Not now! Tell me where my husband is." I said sharply, staring her down.

"I understand they had quite a time locating you," she said, a hint of reproach in the voice of a woman who was a good fifteen years younger than myself.

"I was out of the state. I really don't have time for this."

"Very well." she pointed the way to Malcolm's room.

I had never missed Malcolm when he was away on business trips-not after the first year of living with him-but the last few months had shown me that I was not yet ready to be without him. I should be sending up prayers of gratitude that Malcolm was alive, I supposed, but when I saw him bandaged and bruised, I felt a violent hatred for John Amos that pushed aside all else but the fervent wish that John would not survive his injuries.

I sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and waited for Malcolm to wake, or for the doctor to come in. I hoped the doctor would arrive first, so I'd know what or what not to say to Malcolm when he did surface from the sedation. I didn't have long to wait. The doctor, an auburn-haired, graceful woman of about forty opened the door, and beckoned me to the hall.

"We can speak freely, here. she said. "He should sleep as much as he can; I'll check on him later. I'm Julia Sedgwick."

She extended her ringless hand. She had a direct gaze, and her eyes were a stunning, hazel-green. Her professional, detached demeanor was a soothing influence. She listed Malcolm's injuries and what had been done.

"We'll take the stitches out of his eyebrow in a few days." she concluded. "Now, I'd like to suggest that your husband see someone. He's been through a traumatic experience, and from what I've observed, he isn't coping well."

"He won't."

"Won't what, Mrs. Foxworth? Won't cope well, or won't see the doctor?"

"Neither." I said.

"Then you must encourage him that to do so would be in his best interest; persuade him." she stated, tapping her clipboard with each emphatic word, as if it was a simple matter of will. She talked on until she was paged. She hurried away, promising to stop in later. Once the doctor was out of sight, my assurance that all would be well vanished right along with her.

I looked out the window and saw that it would be another gray day. Emerging from beneath an awning below was a bereaved family, I guessed, consisting of a mother and her grown daughter and a child. The younger woman was crying, and the little boy broke free and ran, unnoticed, across the parking area and toward the street. I grasped the windowsill for a second, and then closed the blinds and went back to my chair, wishing I had a book to pass the time.

An hour later, Malcolm stirred, and his eyes opened. His voice sounded hoarse, the drug still having its effects.

"It's about time you arrived."

His voice lacked its usual force.

"I'm glad you're awake." I said, moving a chair close to the bed to sit next to him.

He reached out, and, recalling what the doctor had said about trauma, I gave him my hand. He grasped it as if he were drowning.

"I kept looking for you. I thought you wouldn't come."

"Don't talk nonsense. You ought to know better."

"I thought you wouldn't come back." he said again, as if he hadn't heard. The medication made him say these things, I told myself.

"I'm not going anywhere." I said as gently as I could manage. "I was just going to pour a glass of water for you."

I held the glass as he drank, slowly.

"Are you in much pain? How do you feel?"

"How would you expect I'd feel? With all this commotion, I can't sleep."

"You were sleeping, just now."

"They've punctured several veins trying to take blood." he complained. This was familiar ground. "They leave me lying here for hours in the worst possible position for a man subject to back aches. You're here now; ask for the release papers."

"You're staying right here until a doctor says you're not."

I put the glass aside.

"Do you want to tell me what happened? I was informed only that you were here... and John Amos."

"Olivia, he meant to kill both of us."

"Really, Malcolm, I know John's angry, but-"

"He tried to set the house on fire."

I was alarmed, but struggled not to show it.

"He realizes now that he has nothing." I said. "He can't bear knowing that."

When it appeared Malcolm would say no more, I struggled to find anything that might take his mind from this-any sort of meaningless, anodyne conversation.

"Corinne's already made changes at the Hall."

"Don't tell me about the changes, Olivia. Some other time, perhaps."

What he was really saying was that he did not want to talk about Corinne. Corinne, her children, what I had done and what Malcolm had done by way of the terms of his will and that codicil-the mention of any of these was rife with the potential for blame, for accusation, and so they did not need to be discussed.

"Well then, you may like to know that they plan to make their home in South Carolina, so they won't often be at Foxworth."

I stayed with Malcolm until he slept, then went down the hall for a few minutes to speak to a nurse, and to get something resembling breakfast from the cafeteria. I wasn't ready to go home, though I, too, needed rest.

"John did a lot of damage." Malcolm said suddenly. I'd thought he was asleep.

"I haven't been home yet to see it, but it doesn't matter." I said truthfully. I was getting used to seeing remnants of my past disappearing, even as I tried to hold on to them. "All that matters is that you are still here, and you will soon recover."

"Thank you, Olivia."

"It'll be all right." I said.

If I'd thought returning home would help Malcolm, I soon knew I was mistaken. He did not need reminders of the ordeal.

The house had been burgled several times during the decades it had stood vacant, but this was much worse. Everything that was breakable had been mercilessly smashed. My first sight of the sitting-room left me heartsick. I couldn't face such an egregious violation, knowing the damage had been done by the hands of a once-valued member of my own family.

The prized oldest object in the room, an antique white and gold glass vase, was reduced to a pile of rubbish. After relocating the remaining curios to a shelf in the entryway, I simply closed the door so as not to have to see the destruction each time I passed by. Eventually, I found someone to clean and rearrange the room, and a few months later, I redecorated.

Building my color scheme around dove-gray carpeting, I added pale rose-colored draperies, and a settee of a darker shade, and two chairs upholstered in the same heavy silk of a muted floral print. Our old upright piano with its red stained-glass insets on the front, and lamps with silk shades completed the furnishings. The effect was pleasing to the eye, and less cluttered than the room had previously been.

I spoke to Corinne but once, and briefly.

"I haven't had further news of the children." she said. "They're settled in South Carolina."

"That's rather a strange coincidence, isn't it?"

"It's no coincidence. I must have told Cathy that Bart's family home is there. She must know we plan to live there, don't you see? She's done this on purpose."

"Corinne, you would save yourself a lot of worry if you would meet with them, just once."

"How can you be so calm about this? Are you saying I should bring them here? I can't, Mother."

She could-assuming they would want to live with her-but I knew she would never do something so rash.

If she lost her inheritance, Bartholomew's income could support them in a modest way. Foxworth Hall was mine now, as the Foxworth fortune would be, if Corinne forfeited it, and whether or not they resided at the Hall was my decision. But money wasn't her only concern, for if she chose that path, then she would lose the independence from me which the inheritance now afforded her, and she would probably lose Bartholomew, whose lawyer's conscience may not countenance absolving her of her crimes.

"I have no opinion about that." I said, and for the time being, it was true. I felt nothing.

Malcolm was brought home. His bruises faded, his wounds healed, but he wasn't the same. Nervously, he checked windows and doorways. At least half a dozen times each day, he asked if the doors were locked. He peered out the front windows to be sure the gate was closed. Now that disease had killed off the lovely old elm trees, the house was more visible from the street, and this made him edgy.

I am not one who feels a compulsion to answer ringing telephones and doorbells, and this suited Malcolm. In this specious way, we lived for a while. Trouble could not reach us if we shut it outside, but if trouble lurked outside, I could not go out. Malcolm did not want to be alone. He was obsessive about that,  
and the worst argument we'd had in a long time ensued when I insisted upon going out one afternoon, months later, to search out a baby gift for Millicent's daughter.

"I don't know what I can find that she'll need. A woman who has had four already, three of them sons, must have everything." I said, knowing he wasn't the least bit interested, but trying to fill the cold, tense silence.

Silence was somehow harder to bear than some of his more vituperative outbursts, and he must have realized this. His churlish silence continued into the evening, when I told him about my day and how I'd enjoyed getting out of the house, about the staggering array of items available for infants now, and about the strangely dressed people I'd seen in a coffee shop. Malcolm sat slumped in the corner armchair, and his eyes remained focused on the television.

As expected, when I broached the subject of the psychiatrist, Malcolm wouldn't hear of it, nor would he take the medicine Dr. Sedgwick had prescribed to help him sleep. His distrust of the doctor was complete.

I picked up the telephone several times to call Millicent, but she was so far away, and there was little she could do to help; she had her own worries. I sent her a belated Christmas card and gift.

Time dragged by in this fashion. In us both lurked the underlying fear that Malcolm would never get beyond this paranoia, and paranoia is contagious.

"We're a pair." I said, and we exchanged a wry look.

So much togetherness, and living with this tension made us quarrelsome. I lashed out often in frustration, then felt immediate guilt for my outbursts.

On one such morning, Malcolm, seated before the octagonal kitchen table, was reading the newspaper aloud, elucidating his opinions on world happenings. I stirred raspberries into a saucepan of cereal I was making, and refrained from offering any comment.

Morning light was just coming through the window over the sink, running a sharp angle across door and table and the stainless steel of Malcolm's wheelchair, where he sat, dressed in pale blue shirt and gray trousers, appearing deceptively calm and well.

"You haven't called the hospital to see what John's condition is, have you?" asked Malcolm, abruptly.

I hadn't, and I would not.

"Why do you ask, Malcolm? I am certain we will not see John again."

"I'd like to forget the things he said. He's twisted everything he knows about us into an extraordinary pack of lies."

I added honey and cinnamon to the saucepan, then put down my spoon and turned to him.

"That's hardly surprising. It isn't important now. Let's not analyze it, shall we?"

"I know how unreasonable it is, but I think-"

"Julia called yesterday, Malcolm." I interrupted, referring to the doctor who was also a psychiatrist. "I think you ought to make an appointment, and speak to her."

"Julia, Julia!" he waved at the air as if to rid himself of an unseen nuisance. "I don't like that woman. Who ever heard of a woman doctor? And since when are you and she on a first name basis?"

"I like her, and she is very professional."

"Professional," he muttered, sneering. "at what?"

"Malcolm-"

"Sit down, have your coffee and listen to this." he said as he picked up the newspaper once more.

"Malcolm, I really think-"

"I will not discuss the subject anymore."

I pressed my lips together and turned back to the stove. But after a few minutes, I could not hold my tongue; this simply had to be resolved.

"For heaven's sake, Malcolm! Why won't you see the doctor? Why can't you get over this pointless fear? John is not coming back." I sighed. "If I hadn't gone to Virginia, this would never have happened."

When he didn't speak, I took it to mean that he did hold me responsible, and I turned away, retreating into my silence-into myself.

If I'd been a different sort of person, I might have offered some gesture or words of reassurance, but my thoughts were crowded with my own fears. As winter and spring passed, I kept expecting to hear from Corinne, or to hear news of her children. I began to agree with Malcolm-though for different reasons-that this house was not a safe place.

"Riffraff," pronounced Malcolm, and he is correct. The street is shabby, the people living along it are shabbier. In the intervening years from the time my father died and now, the neighborhood fell into a decline. New London is more crowded than once it was, and it is home to people who I do not wish to call neighbors.

After the luxury and quiet comfort of Foxworth Hall, it was difficult to settle in New London. Frequently, the possibility was raised of finding someplace more suitable to live. Malcolm suggested relocating to California, where we still own property bought in the late 1920's, a time when Malcolm expected we would spend significant time there, so he could oversee the expansion of certain of his businesses.

I enjoy the changing of the seasons, and so I was reluctant to assent to such a drastic change, but the farther we were away from John Amos, the safer we would be. After further consideration, I acceded that it was a good solution. The house there is adequate; it is, in fact, a larger house than we need,  
but it could be made ready in a matter of months, Malcolm guessed, and so we began making plans.


	19. Olivia's Story

Chapter 26

OLIVIA'S STORY

"Grandmother's garden was a beautiful place, more beautiful than all the shop windows in the city; for there was a flower or grass for every color in the rainbow, with great white lilies, standing up so straight and tall, to remind you that a whole rainbow of light was needed to make them so pure and white." - Maude Lindsay

"One body split and passed along the line;  
I know these bones as being mine.  
Some are lean and some with grace, and some without;  
All tell the story that repeats.  
See his eyes and how they start with light,  
Getting colder as the pictures go-  
Did he carry his bad luck upon his back?-that bad luck we've all come to know.  
And my question to you is: How did this come to pass?  
How did this one life fall so far and fast?" - Suzanne Vega, Blood Sings

I was walking up the basement stairs when I heard Malcolm calling, urgency in his voice. I sighed, and leaned against the wall, burying my face in the bundle of freshly washed and ironed clothing. The mindless tasks of keeping the house clean and organized was soothing, though harder to keep up with, of late.

I turned, pushing the basement door open with my shoulder, and stumbled over the last step, as I emerged into the kitchen. I was reluctant to leave the cool,  
quiet basement, and deal with more of Malcolm's complaints and over-reactions.

"What is the emergency, now?"

"Why in God's name does it take you so long to come upstairs?"

"Malcolm, I'm busy. If you don't stop interrupting, I'll hire a nurse, or someone else, who can wait on you."

This was an empty threat, and we both knew it.

"What is it? If you've called me all the way up here just to bring you a glass of water, or to change the channel again-"

I hated the sound of the television, and he had two of them now-one in his bedroom, and one in the sitting room. They stayed on for hours, though he rarely paid attention. Their purpose was to fill the silences that might give him too much time for thinking, I suspected.

"Someone's at the front door."

"No one's here, Malcolm. I didn't hear the bell."

"Well," he said with sarcasm, "if you didn't hear it, then it must not have rung. There are many things you don't hear. Perhaps your age is catching up with you."

"If it is, it's your nonsense that hastens the day. Living with you would age anyone, over night."\

I went through the hallway toward the front of the house. There was indeed someone waiting at the door, a short, dark-haired woman in a sunny yellow linen dress, tiny gold sand-dollars dangling from her ears.

"Yes?"

"I'm looking for Mrs. Foxworth-Olivia Foxworth?" said the young woman who stood on my porch.

I glanced beyond her, past the rhododendrons whose pure white blossoms resembled snowballs amid the greenery of late May. I looked past the lawn and empty driveway. There was no one with her.

"I am Mrs. Foxworth."

She stared at me for an interval before replying.

"Oh. Well... I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I have something to discuss. May I come in for a few minutes?"

Suspicion made me narrow my eyes, as I considered the request of this stranger.

"You want to come in?"

"It is very important, a personal matter-some family business." she said in a rush.

Family business? Despite the warmth of the afternoon, I felt a chill. Could this be about Corinne's children? Had the day I'd expected and feared finally come? Why now, when I'd finally stopped fearing every ring of the telephone, when I'd stopped listening in the silences for disaster.

When I failed to respond immediately, a blush came to her cheeks. She was obviously ill at ease. I regarded her for a moment, perplexed, but I stepped back, to allow her into the entryway. She paused there to gaze around, as if disoriented by the surroundings.

"Come into the sitting room." I said, starting briskly down the hall. She followed, her eyes examining everything as she passed by. Nothing was very remarkable in the mixture of new furniture and old Eastlake pieces, whose carvings collected dust.

When we entered the sitting room, Malcolm lowered his newspaper, raising an eyebrow questioningly at the unusual sight of a visitor. It was rare that anyone came into the house.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you had a guest." she said, flustered.

"This is Malcolm, my husband."

My words seemed to startle her.

"Oh, I didn't realize... I read that he... I'm sorry-" she stammered, embarrassed.

"Please sit down." I said, indicating the chair across from the sofa. "Would you care for something to drink, some lemonade, perhaps? I was just about to have a glass, myself."

"Yes, thank you." she smiled, and seemed to relax somewhat, though she still perched on the edge of the chair, as if prepared to spring up and run at a moment's notice. She cast furtive glances about the room, at the silver-framed photographs atop the piano, and at Malcolm.

"I hope you prefer your lemonade more on the tart side, young lady."

"Pardon?"

"My wife never adds the proper amount of sugar."

"I'm sure it will be fine." she said uncertainly, as if she wasn't sure if he was making a joke.

I switched off the television. I went to the window and turned off the air conditioner; conversations were difficult to follow, over its hum, and our guest was unaccustomed to Malcolm's speech, which was sometimes still a challenge to understand.

Our guest drank her lemonade, though the glass was unsteady, in her hands. I pinned her with an inquisitive stare, and waited. Finally, with a timorous sigh,  
she spoke.

"I don't know how to begin. What I have to say may not be welcome news to you, but I am very glad you are both here to hear it. You see, I read in the newspaper that you had died some time ago." she said, addressing Malcolm. "I am relieved to find that it was a mistake."

"For our own reasons-which are not open for discussion, we wish to keep that fact secret." I leaned forward to peer at her more closely. "I don't believe I got your name. What did you say it is?"

Instead of answering, she retrieved her leather handbag from the floor and removed something from it.

"It would be easier to let you read this. It explains everything I know." she said,  
extending her small hand. I put my glass aside and reached for the unlabeled envelope with growing curiosity.

"My father died last year. I found that, while sorting through my parents' belongings, before the house was sold. What you're about to read was unknown to me until recently. I've been debating whether or not to pay you a visit."

"I am sorry for your loss, but I don't see what this has to do with us." I said as I pulled open the mysterious envelope.

"It concerns you and me first, Olivia, and then your father." she said quietly.

I was taken aback by the boldness of her use of my first name. I looked at her sharply. Her eyes held a far-away expression.

"That's what she said to me that day-my mother."

"I don't understand." I said impatiently. "Please come to the point."

"The pages you're about to read came from my mother's journal, apparently. Please, just read it, and then it will all become clear to you."

There were several yellowed news clippings in the envelope, but I didn't glance at them as I reached for my glasses, unfolded the small pages, and, still baffled, began to read.

"October, 1938

I broke the news to my mother as gently as possible, but no preparation would have softened the blow for her. I do regret that I've disappointed her. I'll never forget the look of defeat and sadness that came into her eyes when I told her I was pregnant.

"A child! Oh dear!" my mother wailed, covering her face with her hands. "I thought we brought you up better than to behave like a... a common..." she stopped the hurtful words from escaping, and straightened, suddenly practical.

"I must have time to think of what you ought to do. There's no need crying over it now. Your father must not hear a word of this. I am sure I can discreetly ask about, and see if anyone knows of a doctor who can quietly help you out of this unfortunate mishap...or a place where you can be sent until the birth,  
then the child can be adopted."

I looked up, stricken with surprise.

"No, I won't do it. I won't get rid of the baby! You can't force me to, Mother. This is all I have left of him, and I'm keeping the baby." Stubbornly, my eyes filled with tears, but for once, I did not cry.

"For heaven's sake, hush!" Mother hissed, then sighed in exasperation. "What are you saying? does he know of your condition, and refuse to marry you?"

"Not exactly."

"If this young man cared at all about you, he'd come forward and face his responsibility like a man. He'd marry you."

"I'm afraid that isn't possible now, Mother." I said in a near whisper.

"Why on earth not!" Mother snapped. "You give me the boy's name. Perhaps your father should know about this after all, and pay him a visit. Is the father of this child that one you were seeing last spring? I know his family would-"

"Oh, I know who you mean, but no, not him. But he's been calling, asking me to go out again recently. He says he loves me." I replied, dejectedly. "The baby's father is someone I met while I was away for the summer, and last week I'd written, telling him I thought we ought not to continue. He just wasn't for me, but he was so sad and sweet-so...so alive." I broke off, hearing my own words, and blushed.

Mother's eyebrows rose in disapproval, and she turned away, clearing her throat, and pulled down the window shade,  
blocking out the early fall sunset.

"Tell me his name, then." she demanded, looking squarely at me for the first time.

Visions of the blunt, ugly newsprint flashed in my mind-such a callous, cruel messenger of fate,  
it had been, arriving on the doorstep yesterday morning. Determinedly, I brushed away the last of my tears, knowing I must reveal the truth to my mother if I expected to find any peace.

Seconds later, when the grim details had been laid out, she sat, deliberating, twisting the ring round and round on her finger.

"I think I should go to his parents. don't they have a right to know, Mother? It is their grandchild." I said, putting into words one of the things which had been troubling me.

Horrified, Mother moved swiftly closer, to look into my face. Her expression was determined, her gestures emphatic as she spoke.

"I absolutely forbid you to do any such thing! Think of what they've already suffered. I doubt they would welcome news of this sort. They are not likely to believe you, and at any rate, they are a powerful force in some circles, and the boy's father could make life unpleasant for us-for your father's business.  
You know what a struggle it's been for him through the depression, these last few years. You can not cause such a scandal for those people, or us. Is that clear? You know nothing about them. You don't know how they might react. They could ruin us! Go on to bed, and we'll talk more tomorrow. Until then,  
keep this to yourself."

Several weeks later, the plans for a sudden wedding-my wedding-were being finalized.

"Nora, it's time." Mother said, reverting back to my childhood nickname. It comforted and reassured me that finally, Mother had forgiven me for causing this trouble.

"Go on. It's getting late."

I wiped away a single tear, took up the flowers I must carry, and turned toward the door.  
I could hear the voices of the crowd of family and friends assembled outside, and the music.

A stab of nearly physical pain shot through me as again, I wished the man waiting to put the ring on my finger was the fair-haired one I saw in my mind's eye before sleep each night, but it could not be. Time and the eternal impossibility of that union rearranged my memory of him, and my affection for him grew, as the small life within me grew. Still, I resolved to put the image of him, his musical laughter and melancholy eyes out of my mind for good.

"Go now, Nora. You've made the wisest choice by marrying him. Winston adores you, and will make a wonderful father to your child. He need not know it isn't his. You will grow to love him after a time. It is the way of most marriages."

Hugging Mother, hoping she was right, I nodded, and opened the door to a new stage of my life. The child would never be told the identity of its true father.  
Under the circumstances, it would be better to fabricate a partial truth, if I chose to reveal someday that my soon-to-be husband was not the child's father.  
It would not help to dwell on the truth or to burden the child with tragic facts, especially when that child may not be accepted by the family, if he or she should one day seek them out.

I was amazed at how much I already loved the child I carried, and could only imagine the suffering I'd feel if I lost the baby. In this spirit, despite Mother's warnings, I would perhaps someday write a letter to the baby's other grandmother, I thought, but until that day, I would not think of the sad business again.

In memory of him, I decided to give his child one of his family names,  
a name of someone he had loved, and I knew that had been a scarce commodity in his brief life. It seemed the right thing to do, and I hope Mal Foxworth would have approved."

I dropped the papers with a gasp, my face losing all color, as my scrambled mind finally comprehended what I had just read. It read like pages from a badly-written romance novel, but it was a true story.

"Heir to Foxworth Empire Dies Yesterday In Motorcycle Accident!" screamed the headline on one of the newspaper clippings, dated September 6, 1938. Before I could crumple them, Malcolm took the contents of the envelope from me, and scanned them, quickly.

"My God!" he exclaimed, with quiet, extreme shock which mirrored my own. "If this is some sort of joke-"

There was confusion and a warning in his voice, and an anger that spoke of hurt at having long-  
buried pain dredged up in this unexpected way.

"What... what is your name?" I choked out, my voice sounding thin and strained. There was a moment of heavy silence before she spoke, her words washing over me like a cold, but cleansing rain.

"I'm Olivia."

"Pardon?" I breathed, my mind swimming. The room seemed to revolve crazily as I listened to her soft voice.

"My name is Olivia Ann Gordon Logan." she repeated.

I scrutinized her face, noticing what I'd not seen before. Her diminutive stature and her hair coloring must be like her mother's, but her face was shaped like Mal's, especially around the chin and nose. She was indeed lovely, I thought, with a mixture of pride and sadness.

Malcolm wasn't as quick to accept the word of a stranger.

"None of this," he said, waving a hand at the papers he had tossed onto the table next to him, "is solid proof."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Foxworth. I can't give you solid proof because I don't have it."

They stared at each other, each taking measure of the other. She broke the eye contact and pulled a slim blue volume out of her handbag, and passed it to me .

"I don't know if this book is related to this matter at all, but It was with that envelope. Maybe it means something to you."

Malcolm's face was set in a deep scowl, and he made an effort to bite back his words. Our guest, seeing this, stood up abruptly.

"I see that coming to you has been a mistake. I'll let myself out."

"Wait!" My eyes fell to the book in my hands. It had been decades since I'd seen it, and I scarcely recognized it. "This belonged to me."

I held out the book to Malcolm, opening it to the front endpaper and the inscription in fading ink.

"With every good wish for Christmas ... I am not too well, even now. Love, Elaine."

"What is this?"

I explained briefly, about my girlhood friend, now nearly forgotten, as I turned the pages of a book of simple poems, searching. I hadn't known what I would find, but when I saw it, I recognized Mal's handwriting. In the margins of several pages were musical notes and additional lines, as if he had transformed the existing poetry into his own creation, his own music-music which I would, later, play through, just once on the piano, to bring my son close.

"I don't know how or why my mother had possession of that. There are no other messages in the pages, and no other names, so I didn't assume it was a gift of any kind meant for her." said Olivia Ann.

Yes. The words could have been meant for anyone, or for no one. We would never know.

"She has your eyes." Malcolm later commented, after she had gone. It was true. Her eyes were the same smoky gray as my own, and held the same intense, level look I sometimes saw in my mirror. This, more than anything else, convinced me that what she was claiming was the truth. She was a Foxworth!

"Why did you choose to tell us this now?" Malcolm asked. His tone was guarded, as if still unwilling to believe the incredible fact that we suddenly had a granddaughter.

"It's complicated." she began hesitantly. "I've had a great many unpleasant decisions to make recently regarding my family." she avoided eye contact, and gazed at the rug as she spoke.

"I haven't known of this very long myself, as I said. I think my mother tried to tell me the truth shortly before she died, but only told half of it. She invented the other half, and conveniently left out names." she admitted. I could see she harbored some anger about this. "Suffice it to say that I believe family is extremely important-the most important part of life,  
aside from business."

Malcolm's eyes brightened.

"I have been forced to carry the burdens of my family, and of late I have felt," she paused, as if she might be revealing too much. "I've felt rather worn down by it. It was simply time to find you, and get the truth out in the open-oh, I only meant that it shall be known among ourselves. My grandmother-  
-Leonora's mother-was worried about scandal, and I certainly don't intend to cause one, at this late date."

She stayed for several hours that day, answering our questions as best she could. There was an awkward moment when she asked if we remembered her mother,  
Leonora. Malcolm and I exchanged a bemused look. The truth, as he later told me, was that there had been several young women Mal had spent time with; he had not steadily courted any particular one of them.

"He wouldn't have married that girl's mother-"

"Leonora." I supplied.

"Leonora. Mal wouldn't have married her, anyway." said Malcolm.

"How can you say that? How would you know?" I asked, indignant both at the thought of the impropriety of the situation, and at the thought that Malcolm knew things about our son that I had not known.

"Because there are different types of women those that you marry, and... those that you don't."

I grimaced.

"That's a piece of well thought out logic, Malcolm." I said, derisively.

"Did you want me to be crude? I'm sure you understand what I mean. It's true, Olivia. Why, my father's choices were good enough examples."

"You would have had Mal turn out just like yourself, I suppose." I said dryly.

"Better." he said, momentarily pensive. "Mal came to me for advice, and I gave it to him."

"I shudder to think what that advice might have been."

Malcolm smirked.

"I'm sure. I'm sure you would have been decently scandalized."

On subsequent visits, conversations grew easier, less intensely focused on the past. At first, Olivia Ann brought pictures of herself, both present and past, and talked about her life in Provincetown. I had copies made of some of our photographs and gave them to her, as well.

While her sudden emergence was an extraordinary gift, and we enjoyed becoming acquainted with Olivia Ann, it was difficult to think of her as a granddaughter. I could not imagine Mal a father; he had been taken from us at such a young age. Malcolm and I wondered if he had known about his child, but we concluded that it was unlikely. Leonora destroyed her original diary, so we can never know all of the answers. There is no doubt in our minds, however, that Olivia Ann is ours. Her character and her forthright mien prove our lineage.

When she brought her young sons to visit for the first time, I observed that she, like Malcolm in his youth, made much of the importance of family, but cared for hers in an aloof way, and this saddened me. She did not have warm maternal feelings, though in her own way, she was dependable, and she loved her children.

Malcolm took to Jacob right away, since the child was so serious-minded and possessed a maturity beyond his years. Malcolm's manner with the children was much less brusque than it had been when our own boys were small. Malcolm seemed to have acquired a measure of patience, and he spent hours reading with Jacob,  
listening to the childish prattle as though he was interested in every word.

We abandoned all talk of moving to California. At last we felt some semblance of happiness, and, we concurred, it was long overdue. Afternoon visit by afternoon visit, life began to feel normal, as if, perhaps, our tragedies had been consigned to the past, and now, at last, was the time for our reward.

Olivia Ann also seems happy to be part of our lives. I often sense that she is lonely, notwithstanding the facts of her beautiful family and enviable social status. The Gordons are deceased, and apparently,  
Olivia's husband has no living relatives who are involved. Malcolm and I are the only grandparents her children will know, or more accurately,  
great grandparents!

While we immensely enjoy the visits of the children, for they are excellent at breaking the ice, we are happiest to see Olivia Ann, for she is the only link to Mal left to us. She has helped us in so many ways. Her presence in our life has given us a safe reason to talk about Mal, and slowly, we have made progress in healing hurt which two decades have dulled, but could not eliminate. At least we can talk about Mal and Joel on occasion, without the scathing blame that once accompanied any mention of the boys.

When Olivia Ann is with us, Malcolm and I focus only on the present. I marvel at this wonder that has befallen us out of the blue-this blessing. I know we are both grateful for it, but also saddened, knowing we have missed years of her life. It would have made such a difference in the year following the deaths of Mal and Joel to know we had a granddaughter. It would have, perhaps, lessened some of the bleakness we felt. The light Olivia Ann and her children bring into our life shows me how small our world had become, how it has been steadily shrinking over the years, and how closed and joyless we have been.

This newly found family, suddenly acquired, makes me even more sharply aware of my regrets about my part in what happened with Corinne and her children. I have begun to worry incessantly that somehow, Olivia Ann will learn of my secrets. Bringing up these fears again and again, and waking Malcolm at night to talk about them only annoys him, and does not expunge my fear. Sometimes the talks escalate into arguments. Other times, Malcolm wordlessly pours a glass of water, and gives me two chalky tablets from his cache of pills-medicine meant to calm a mind which is often too active for sleep, although Malcolm himself rarely takes the sedative. I swallow them,  
gratefully, aware that this is becoming a nightly ritual.

"It will be that older girl, Catherine, who will destroy us, I know it."

"Let's not meet trouble half way." advised Malcolm.

"She will want revenge against Corinne. She has those memorandum books."

Once it was apparent how ill the child Cory had been, the horror of what we'd done in those three years finally had become real to me; I'd been shaken out of my state of detachment. In the end, I hadn't been able to find a way to extricate myself or Corinne, and while I failed to act, unable to see an ending to that nightmare, the children had ended it themselves. I told Malcolm about the day Cory died, and about how Catherine had screamed out her anger and judgments against her mother, the night Corinne had taken Cory away. Catherine had been right to say what she did to her mother. It had amused me to hear it, but I am haunted by that memory, sickened with trepidation for the future.

"We can't see Olivia Ann again." I decided one night, in a flash of self-hatred. "I can't face it. We can't get involved."

"We are already involved. She knows where we live and who we are. What do you propose we do? Refuse to answer the bell?"

He looked at me as if he believed I was finally losing my mind.

"I'll think of some reason to keep her away."

"You'll do no such thing! It's too late for that. You're saying this because you are afraid of losing her, as we lost the boys and-"

"This has nothing to do with them." I snapped.

"Doesn't it?"

I turned away, wishing to end the conversation.

"Did it occur to you that I might feel as you do? I understand, you know, Olivia."

"You have never understood anything that matters. You didn't really know the boys. You have never understood me."

"You're mistaken." he said, his voice tight with rapidly diminishing patience. "I know you better than anyone. I am the only one who does understand you."

"What do you understand, Malcolm? I torture and starve children!" I said contemptuously, in the grip of vicious self-loathing. "I am not kind. I am not good."

"It doesn't matter."

"So says one sinner to another." I said dryly. "I'm sure it will matter to Olivia Ann."

"So you've taken it upon yourself to punish us both, I suppose. Or is this some sick form of revenge against me?"

"We don't deserve this."

"That sounds suspiciously like the words of John Amos." Malcolm said in a most disgusted tone.

"I don't deserve to have anything that is good. I don't deserve to have another chance. Do you understand that, Malcolm?"

Sooner or later he would blame me, and not John Amos, for causing all of this unhappiness.

"You are too over-wrought to discuss this reasonably."

Ah, yes-Malcolm's way of salvaging civility, it was as predictable as time. My fault. I am emotional and unreliable; I can't mean what I say.

"You should get a good night's sleep."

"We will talk about this tomorrow." I said.

"We won't discuss this again." he said forcefully, as he put out the light.

I am convinced that if the truth is ever revealed, I will be blamed for it all. But none of those who lay the blame for all the disease in this family at my feet can really know what it is to walk in my shoes even for a day. If they did, they might understand why I've done the things I have done.

Every time I say good-bye and embrace Olivia Ann, I fear that this parting will be the last, and am slightly self-conscious. I have so long accustomed myself to doing without the closeness of family, and the easy affection inherent in it. I have separated myself, have become an island, contented to be left alone in my world of books and thoughts, only rarely admitting another person from time to time, with caution. And there is Malcolm, of course, whose presence is like the air I breathe-a fact, the years melding habit into necessity, so that now,  
to have another person smile, show the smallest bit of affection is strange, and wonderful. I can't bear the thought that Corinne's children might ruin it all, and take from us the only family we have.

"Olivia, consider writing, in your own words, a permanent account of events, from your point of view. It will be thorough, and easier to do than forcing yourself to make some sort of unnecessary verbal confession."

I pondered Malcolm's suggestion, and decided it was a good one. I set to work immediately, quickly realizing I had to tell my whole story, not just the last few years of it. I began with my first meeting with Malcolm, and, in order to leave a thorough record, I had to weave together all the intricate threads which caused the outcomes with which we live, today. It has proven to be an arduous undertaking, a task which has taken six years to complete and revise, but I find I enjoy the work. It has brought to the fore many difficult feelings and memories, but writing has also freed me from the hold on me which my memories have had, for so long.

"Cruelty comes in many forms, ignorance is one of them."

When I stop to review my own words in stark black and white, I know that I am writing for myself, as much as for anyone else. I have been cruel; I have judged in ignorance, as well. I wrote these words for others to read; I had written them about those unknown readers, but they apply to myself, as well.

I had a small gateleg table and my typewriter moved into the unused dining room, and that became my office, for the project. I never show Malcolm what I've written, and the proviso I've added will ensure that Malcolm, who cannot outlive me by twenty years, will never have to read my pages. But once they are finished, I'll leave something important of myself in these chapters, and my voice can never be forgotten, or silenced again. Those who matter to me will have these chapters to prove-despite all who might speak against me-that I lived, and that I was not as inhuman as some believe.

I trust that my manuscript will be found in the right time, by someone whom will treat it well, and perhaps even find some forgiveness for, and understanding of me, and for what my life has been. There are few left in whose memory I might expect to live, and be thought of with any love, nor even positive memory.  
All that will remain of my life is my words, and I hope, to someone, they will be worth reading and have a lasting impact.

-Olivia Kate Winfield Foxworth


	20. Death's Shadow

Epilogue

DEATH'S SHADOW

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,  
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,  
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;  
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there,  
But only agony, and that has ending;  
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death. - Rupert Brooke, Peace

"I am concerned about you!" exclaimed a frazzled Olivia Logan, as she paced the length of the Persian rug in the parlor, worry etched on her face and revealed in her movements.

"So you keep saying." answered Malcolm, looking back down at his newspaper. His granddaughter stalked across to stand directly in front of him.

"You are blocking my light." he said tersely.

"Malcolm," she easily removed the paper from his weakened grasp. "listen to me-"

"You say that just like your grandmother." he said archly. It was not meant as a compliment.

"It's a wonder that you have been able to put up with this man." said Olivia Ann with an exasperated look toward Olivia.

"Entirely by choice. No one need suffer my presence," snapped Malcolm.

"You really must not upset him." said Olivia, an edge to her voice.

"It seems as though I've outstayed my welcome, today." Olivia Ann said. She continued to belabor her point. "The two of you cannot continue to live here by yourselves."

"We're managing well enough, without your interference." Malcolm insisted.

"I know you dislike having to ask for help, Malcolm," she lowered her voice, changing tactic before continuing: "Look around, and be realistic. Gram can barely pull herself out of a chair, and she seems to be slowing down more, I notice, each time I visit."

"Rubbish," muttered Malcolm.

"You just don't see it."

"We spend summers here, and winters in Connecticut. I don't plan to change that." he said, battling to control the frustrations caused by the indignities of age and the impertinence of his well-meaning granddaughter.

"But neither of you can drive. What if one of you should need a doctor, or need to get into town quickly-had you thought of that? It takes half an hour to drive to Charlottesville, and longer in poor weather. It is dangerous for you to be here alone. And don't glare at me that way!" The two of them had identical expressions when they were displeased.

"I won't have you talking down to me." he said. "I am still a rational being, and able to make my own arrangements."

"The two of you should consider coming to live with us." she said. There was no response whatsoever. "Malcolm, I can't visit as often as I could, if you would stay in Connecticut. I can't look after you, from such a distance."

"We didn't ask for your help." said Malcolm, straightening in his chair, glancing at Olivia, who seemed not to be listening. She sat nearby, motionless on an old walnut and burgundy brocade settee, her face impassive.

"You don't need to ask." Olivia Ann sighed. "But this arrangement is no longer a good one, even if it is only for the summer. I worry. Someone besides the servants should be here with you. Look, if you won't call Corinne, then I will. If you are too proud to ask for help, or to patch up whatever the rift is between you, then I will do it for you," Then, seeing the hard expression that came into Malcolm's eyes, she said: "and you don't have a choice about it."

"It isn't that simple."

They both turned to Olivia. She spoke so rarely, as if speech had become too great an effort.

"We haven't been in contact with Corinne and Bartholomew for several years now. In fact, Bartholomew doesn't know that Malcolm is alive."

This was astonishing! Was there no end to the deceptions in families?

Olivia Ann concluded that her grandparents felt, even after knowing her for ten years, that they could not trust her with their secrets, and this hurt, for who else cared about them, now? Their daughter had obviously abandoned them, although they were on good enough terms so that Corinne was still permitted to come and go as she wished at Foxworth Hall, although she never crossed paths with her parents.

Photographs of Corinne Winslow showed a woman of refinement, whose demeanor and smile suggested only sweetness, though this could not be the case. What was Corinne thinking, gallivanting all over the country-the world-never writing, never spending so much as a single holiday with her aging parents? For this, for shunning family responsibilities, Olivia Ann disliked the aunt she had never met.

"I suppose you could call Bartholomew. If he returned to Virginia without Corinne, as he often has done in the past, no one would be suspicious. He'll have to be told about Malcolm. You MUST advise him to use discretion." stressed Olivia.

"Suspicious of what, Gram?"

Olivia wore a closed expression; clearly she was unwilling to reveal the source of their trouble.

Sunlight streamed in through the leaded glass window, causing the diamonds on her hand to sparkle. Olivia made an effort with her appearance when visitors were expected, but despite the elegance of her clothes and jewelry, she seemed to be fading. She appeared smaller, and often she seemed distant, as if separating herself from the present. Her skin was tissue-paper thin and pale, the vibrant energy that defined her was disappearing. Olivia Ann wondered if Malcolm even noticed.

Not being with her grandparents every day, she noticed changes in each of them, which they did not see. They were both more subdued than usual. The constant bickering that had always been part of their communication seemed to have lessened-or was it only her imagination? No, of course they were the same as they had always been-a bit aloof, with a quiet solidarity that she envied. It seemed that they needed no one else.

Undemonstrative herself, she understood their reserved manner. The pride innate in each of them forbade certain kinds of warmth. She wondered if the man who, if he had lived, would have been her father, might have felt excluded in the company of his parents.

She herself had often felt strangely disconnected from the Gordons. Had it been an intuitive knowing that had told her she wasn't one of them, that she had a family elsewhere? Would she have felt more of a sense of belonging, if she'd grown up as a Foxworth?

Olivia Ann couldn't imagine living in this massive house-feeling at ease enough to walk downstairs in one's night clothes, or to summon the courage to relax enough to feel that all the untidy ways of life were permissible, in these surroundings. It was even more impossible to imagine being a child, here. She was uneasy, bringing her children into its polished grandeur. She and Samuel preferred more modern houses, though one could not help being impressed by Foxworth Hall. One couldn't help but feel grand, simply by traversing wide spaces and deep pile rugs, or descending the curving staircases. Her grandparents, though, belonged to these large rooms and high ceilings, and perhaps Mal had as well. He would have inherited the mansion, so surely, had Mal not died, his daughter would have been brought up here, too.

Olivia Ann felt no particular connection to Mal, but she was curious about him. In avid fascination, she had studied pictures of him, wondering who he had been. She wished she had known him, for the pieces of his life left to her in colorless photographs and in the stories told to her were insufficient. All one could know from photographs was that Mal had strongly resembled Malcolm, even as a small boy. Had Mal worn the old-fashioned clothing of the 1890's rather than knee pants, he would have looked exactly as Malcolm had at the same age. In the last photographs of Mal, he resembled Malcolm more than ever, although Mal had an unformed, youthful quality which the picture of Malcolm-at twenty-five, taken shortly after his marriage-did not show.

Like his father, Mal had been magnificent, and brilliant. (Although, if one believed her grandmother, all Foxworth men were born geniuses, of one kind or another.) As a young man, at six-five, Mal had been taller than both of his parents, and he seemed to have had a lively quality they lacked. Perhaps it was only the exuberance of youth they had lost, and then on a Monday, a mild September evening, they had lost Mal too, the one her grandfather-had placed all his ambitious hopes in. She wondered if Mal had been as pertinacious as the man he was named after, and if this had been part of his charm.

"As usual, I am getting nowhere with the two of you. You would try the patience of a saint! It's getting late, and I should be going. I'll call you tomorrow night."

With her characteristic brisk movements, Olivia Ann hugged each of them quickly, and started for the door. Sadness slowed her steps, for the arms that hugged her back were no longer strong. Just as it had with her parents, time was running out with two more people she loved, and she hated to leave them. Every visit might be the last.

"Bring the boys with you next time, dear." said Olivia.

"I will." Olivia Ann promised, reluctantly. The noise and constant activity of the children would tire them-a fact to which they had begun, recently, to admit.

"They liked the toys you sent, Gram." She must find a tactful way to ask her grandmother to desist from buying the children new toys, for so many presents they surely did not deserve, outside of holiday occasions. "Chester especially likes the kaleidoscope and the wind-up cars."

"Those infernal cars have a way of always being underfoot." grumbled Malcolm. "See that they aren't brought back into this house."

"Mal had some like them. I can't tell you how many times he sent one hurtling across the rotunda, and it would go through the balusters and crash down into the foyer, always when Malcolm was walking by." Olivia smiled, but the scene had been anything but pleasant, at the time.

"He did it intentionally." said Malcolm.

"Well, don't put that idea in Chester's head, please."

"Take these news clippings Jacob wanted about Pioneer 10." said Malcolm. Olivia Ann accepted the envelope, then hurried down the steps of the front portico, and down the driveway to her car.

Leaning on his cane, Malcolm went to the window to see her off, then turned to help Olivia to her feet. She had been given a cane as well, but refused to use it, insisting the aid wasn't necessary. Yet each day she complained of pain in her hip, and her steps grew more faltering.

Seven chimes resounded from the grandfather clock, breaking the silence that followed the departure.

Mabel came to leave their after-dinner coffee, asked if they required anything more, then she, too, left for the evening.

"I have such a headache." said Olivia.

"It's doubtless caused by something she uses to season the chicken. I don't care for it myself." said Malcolm. He knew Olivia was changing the subject with her next words.

"She is right, Malcolm."

"Nonsense. I won't hear of it." There was a delay before he spoke, and he replied absent-mindedly, not looking up from the headlines. "If you're getting around to what she said about us going back to Connecticut-"

"Malcolm, it's not a bad idea."

"She has a point, I'm sure, but it is easier to get around this house, with its larger rooms and fewer unavoidable stairs."

"Well, I can't disagree with that."

"Precisely. We will stay here. It's more practical for us, if not for her."

"But it's too much of an imposition for her to drive all this way so often. She's busy with the children and the business, and-"

"The business!" Vexed, Malcolm tossed aside his newspaper. "Why doesn't Samuel take more of an active role in it? He's a worthless excuse for a man. He's lazy, has no ambition."

"You are deliberately changing the subject."

"What kind of a man lets his wife do the work he should be about?"

"She wants to work, Malcolm, and anyway, it's none of our concern."

"It certainly is our concern! I mean to have a word with him." Malcolm fumed.

"Don't do that. Stay out of it, Malcolm. I doubt she would appreciate your interference."

"She looked tired. Didn't you think she looked like she's been working too hard?"

"I really didn't notice. If so, it was due to having to drive to Virginia."

"Must we carry out this tiresome discussion any further?"

"I suppose not," she said crisply. "since you've already made up your mind."

"It's for them-Jacob and Chester-that I need to be here occasionally to see that the place doesn't fall into disrepair and... Olivia? What is it?" Malcolm asked, disturbed by something he saw in her expression.

"Oh, I don't know. I was just thinking that I'll probably never see New England again."

"What kind of talk is that? We'll be there in September." he said impatiently.

"That's such a long time from now." she said. It was then late March, and one of those days with a deceptively clear sky, almost cloudless. Through a window,  
it looked warm, but was not.

Olivia talked on, but Malcolm only half listened. Later, he would regret this. Later, he would want very much to know what she'd said, trivial though it may have been. All he would remember was that she'd crossed the room and picked up a jar of shells Olivia Ann had left atop the music cabinet. The shells were from Jacob for Olivia, because she had once told him how she used to collect them as a girl. Jacob would never be far from his home, from the ocean,  
he was born to it... She had been talking about Jacob, perhaps.

Malcolm looked up when he heard a small crash, and the skittering of shells of all sizes spilling across the hardwood floor. He looked up in time to see Olivia in the doorway, reaching out, groping for the edge of the music cabinet for balance, before she crumpled to the floor. At first, he thought she'd tripped on the edge of the recently restored rug, which had only yesterday been returned to the room.

"My God!" he went across and looked down at her. He swore, hating his helplessness, but there was no way he could lift her, no way he could move her to a more comfortable place. He leaned on his cane. She was trying to speak, but he could make no sense of the sounds. She clutched at his cane ineffectually.

"Mabel! Mabel, goddammit!" he shouted, and looked for a bell-pull which, in his panic, he forgot hadn't been in this room for several decades. Then he remembered that Mabel had left for the evening. The servants no longer lived on the premises.

Reaching for the telephone on the desk nearby, he stared stupidly at its dial. He could not think. His hands shook so badly that it took three attempts before he could successfully put through the necessary call.

"My wife has fallen, and-" he looked down at her, unable to say what he believed-that she was probably dying. "I think she's suffered a stroke. What? How long will it be, for God's sake? She needs help, NOW! Oh, yes. The address is-" His mind went blank.

"Five Mulberry Circle." he finally said into the telephone. "No, no! At the TOP of the hill. It's the Foxworth estate. In North Garden. What should I do for her? I can't... Right. thank you."

The line went dead. Seconds stretched out into what seemed like hours, as he waited.

When Malcolm's own ill health had conquered him, he resented Olivia's vitality, her mobility, while he had been confined to a wheelchair. Age had marked him first, leaving Olivia untouched, until it caught up with her all at once. When it did, she appeared to age overnight. It seemed to Malcolm that she lost ten years in a single day, in that single minute when she fell to the floor, and the mental image he carried of her, forever standing tall and strong and alone dissolved. Now, she languished in the hospital, helpless and unresponsive.

The doctors could not assess what the impact of the stroke would be, for some time yet. Olivia could remain in a coma, or she might die. They gave no concrete answers or guarantee of recovery. If Olivia woke, she might be able to understand words, but she wouldn't be able to form them into speech. Aphasia, the doctors termed it, and they did not expect much improvement.

Malcolm had never expected to be the stronger one, again. After his own heart disease set in, when he considered the infirmities of age, it was himself he believed death would claim first, and that might have been a blessing. Olivia would resist, surely. But she wasn't resisting. It saddened him to realize that she was giving in, she, who had refused to let him give in to death during the days when he would have welcomed an end to his life.

Malcolm's memory was stirred, of a day long ago, after Joel's disappearance, when he'd been sitting alone, staring blankly into space. It was all he seemed to do, in those days, and he wondered how he-a man so hollow and broken-could continue to exist. How could he be expected to take up life's mundane activities again? The gulf between himself and those closest to him widened each day, but he was indifferent to their concerns.

Olivia entered the library one evening, soundless and ghostlike. Her sympathy had been rejected once too often, and now she did not often try to speak to him about his state of mind, but instead sent her cousin.

The dreary rain beyond the French windows was a more appealing sight than his wife, and Malcolm didn't look at her, for whenever he did, he saw what he had lost; he only saw in her face the shape of Mal's face. When she spoke, he heard traces of Joel's voice in her voice. For months, it had been easier to blame her, than to accept that losing his sons was nothing but a pair of causeless accidents-a reality he could not endure.

John Amos claimed the tragedies were punishments from God. But Malcolm knew-though he didn't argue the matter with John-that the universe was far too chaotic and driven by chance for there to be a force so exacting and orderly, doling out rewards and punishments, as John believed.

"Malcolm, listen to me. You're not helping yourself by shutting yourself away in this library, day after day."

"Leave me alone."

"I know you blamed me for... for what happened to Mal."

She waited, but he said nothing. Olivia's voice grated on his nerves.

"Even so," she continued, "you stopped me from harming myself, that day. Let me help you, now."

"I don't see how you, particularly-or anyone-can help."

He didn't want to recall the details of the day of Mal's death. He wished to God she would stop trying to force him to talk, but he finally looked at her, into the eyes he had wished, for months, to avoid, for their vacant expression frightened him. Their emptiness was worse even than seeing her tears.

He had always counted on her to take charge when he couldn't. He didn't know how to cope when she could not. If she had been angry, cutting into him with her usual sarcasm, that would have been easier to abide. But he could not cope with another's weakness, when he himself was at a point of such powerlessness.

John Amos was the only one not crushed by what had happened, and so Malcolm found his company easiest to tolerate.

"You've got to heal yourself, or you'll die." she said, succinctly. "Corinne needs you. She needs us, and we are all we have left of the boys. The only good we had is gone, but we are still living, and we must get beyond this, somehow. We have to look after each other; we're still... a family. We have a daughter and we have a responsibility toward her."

They were brave words, but he doubted if Olivia herself even believed them.

"Yes." he said dully. "But I don't know... I don't know how to-"

Malcolm, unable to articulate his thoughts, waited to be reminded that he deserved all of the blame, that all of this tragedy was engendered by his sin.

The minutes stretched out. The silence was interminable, and he realized that, this once, she would not break it. The silence was calming. Olivia was not the cause of the peace, but strangely, she was part of it-of going on, somehow-to the future, and returning to what remained of importance in his life.

"I am not getting through to Gram. You must go. You must talk to her." said Olivia Ann, who had, only that morning, returned just long enough to unpack her suitcase once again, upstairs in one of the spare rooms.

"She won't know the difference."

"That's nonsense." she snapped. "Stop making excuses."

"The doctors are doing all they can. My presence is not needed."

"I can't believe I am having this conversation with you!"

"I can't see her," he insisted, quietly, but his granddaughter's intractable expression did not change.

"All right." he said with a sigh.

"Good. We'll go after dinner. Do try to eat, Malcolm. I don't want to see both of you in the hospital." she said, setting a bowl of soup before Malcolm, who hadn't eaten anything, in the last day and a half.

She sat down across from him, and poured tea for herself into a fragile, rose-colored cup.

Malcolm could see that she was tired, but unruffled, able to cope with whatever was required of her. The movements of her small hands were swift and graceful, as ever. She sat straight, not leaning against the curved back of the chair. Her clothes were neat and sensible, a pearl-gray skirt and blouse with embroidered collar, and an oval cameo pendant.

"I know how you dislike long-term guests, so I'll be going home, soon, but I'll wait until Corinne arrives. By that time, perhaps Gram will be home."

"You've put too much onion in the soup. I cannot eat this." he said, putting down his spoon, unappreciative of her efforts, and pointedly ignoring the reference to his daughter.

Olivia Ann looked crestfallen, but Malcolm wouldn't retract his criticism. He wasn't hungry, and even had he wanted to eat, the truth was that she couldn't cook. What she made was invariably bland, or improperly seasoned.

"You are certainly not a guest here; you're a Foxworth. This is your home, whenever you need one." Malcolm went on, in a subdued, mumbling way. He felt some guilt as he said it, not because there was anything inherently wrong in letting her know this, but because of the awareness that he'd never expressed such a sentiment to any of his own children.

He looked around the dining room, at the polished silver tea service on the sideboard behind her, at the gleaming oak, at the ornate chandelier above the table, and the sheer, lacy curtains which allowed natural light into the long room, and hoped what he said would be true-that his granddaughter would always be welcomed at Foxworth Hall.

Corinne would inherit the house, of course. Olivia Ann neither needed nor wished for the responsibility of it, but it was as much hers as it was Corinne's.

"I want you to go to the house in New London. There is a sealed parcel of papers there that you must send to me, without delay." Malcolm said later, handing over a set of keys. "And while you are there, take whatever you wish to keep. I don't know what Olivia's written into her will, but I'm sure she'd want you to have-"

"Stop this! She isn't going to die, Malcolm." she insisted in the sharp, thin tone that defied dispute.

"I think I know better than you what to expect." he fired back, forgetting for a moment that Olivia Ann had lost both parents at a relatively young age.

"This is difficult for you, I know." she said. "She's been with you for most of your life."

"There's no reason to get maudlin over it. It's a fact."

"What about Corinne? Have you called her? When will she be here? And... won't she want things from the house, too?" Olivia Ann asked, trying to be generous,  
although if a dispute arose, she had no intention of fighting Corinne for ownership of anything. Malcolm snorted, and she knew this to be a dismissal, and so, heavy-hearted, she accepted and pocketed the keys.

"Corinne won't come."

"Why not? How much longer will she carry on like this, pretending her wretched life has meaning?" she burst out, then, fearing she'd spoken out of turn,  
she added unconvincingly, "Forgive me. I shouldn't have said that."

"No." he agreed, letting the silence linger before continuing. "And, to answer your question, I don't know, but it isn't all her fault."

"What isn't?" she asked, seizing on this opportunity, hoping to learn the cause of the estrangement.

Malcolm looked down at the steps, intently focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He disliked being escorted everywhere, watched, assisted, but Olivia Ann did not treat him as if he were helpless, and she didn't mince words. Walking without help was a monumental challenge, as was evading his granddaughter's questions.

Malcolm would have welcomed the chance to confide in someone. But that would mean having to explain everything, from the beginning. He would have to explain why Corinne and Christopher's relationship had been such an embarrassment, and that they had been so shameless as to engage in improper relations (which was how Olivia would have put it) right here in this house! Had they not thought how indiscreet and inappropriate that was, and how shocking?

Olivia's sensibilities being what they were-old-fashioned, (and he saw the value in that; it preserved boundaries and respectability) she hadn't ever told Malcolm the precise circumstances under which she'd discovered Christopher and Corinne in the Swan Room, that June morning. But John Amos had had no such scruples about spelling out the whole sordid scene to Malcolm.

Malcolm would have to explain about John Amos, as well, and he felt it quite beyond him, so he pretended not to have heard Olivia Ann's question.

"Corinne may choose not to come home, but she ought to know what's happened to her mother."

"Yes," Malcolm considered. "Yes, of course. You'll have to call her."

It would be a brief conversation. Corinne would not be grateful to be notified in this way, and to have to return to Virginia. Her superficially polite, aloof tone was an oblique reminder to Olivia Logan that she was a latecomer to this family.

As they drove away from Foxworth Hall, neither Malcolm nor Olivia Ann spoke. She did not chatter on, with the false brightness Corinne would have employed to fill a lull in conversation; they both preferred companionable silence.

Malcolm did not speculate on what awaited them at the hospital. Instead, he stared out the car window and into the distance, toward the blue-misted mountains, and at his estate.

He had never lost his love of the vast Palladian-style Georgian house he had inherited. What would become of it, when he was gone? Few people had the means to, or wanted to maintain such extravagant houses, anymore.

He regretted that he was incapable of showing his granddaughter around, properly; he did so enjoy seeing the astonishment and appreciation on the face of one viewing Foxworth Hall for the first time, and feeling the pride of ownership which years could not diminish.

It had been decades since he'd walked the familiar paths and through the woods. It had been decades since he'd seen the lake, and he glimpsed it through the trees, a silver sheet reflecting the bright spring sunlight, wishing he could go there, once more. He would not have the chance to relive the memories associated with that place, some good, some best forgotten. He had taught Mal to swim, and that lake had been his refuge from the turmoil that accompanied growing up.

It had been Malcolm's refuge from the confusion that often marked his own younger years, as well. It was his place of escape when he was a boy needing to hide from his father's drunken rages, in the first years after Corinne Sprencel Foxworth, his mother, abandoned them.

In his mind, Malcolm conjured his mother's image, more clearly than he had done, in years. He saw the angelic smile that disguised her true nature. He remembered her unusual eyes and her easy laugh. She had been the darling of everyone's affections, indulged and adored, and forgiven for her flaws.

One April morning, she was nowhere to be found.

At the time, being barely five years old, Malcolm was alternately devastated by the loss of his mother, and glad she was gone, for she had been the one person who would not bend to his will. For months afterward, he was afraid he might disappear in the middle of the night, just as she had disappeared. Didn't all fairy tales promise punishment of one kind or another? His prevailing memories of early childhood were of fear and confusion and loneliness, not of games and happiness.

Attempting to frighten him into behaving, one of the nannies had told him that it was only what bad children deserved. People were-in various ways-always telling him he was very disobedient-his grandmother Rosamond, his own father, Mrs. Wilson the cook, and his nannies, Tillie and Emmeline. All of them thought him worse than naughty, they pronounced him a bad child; they hated him and wished he had been the one to vanish.

While the five-year-old Malcolm grappled with terrors which no one thought to allay, his father, who had displayed little more than indifference toward his son, began to make an impression upon him. For the first time, Malcolm experienced the full force of Garland's temper. Malcolm hadn't fully understood-until much later-why his father fell into such black moods whenever Corinne's name was mentioned-not until he had found the drawer at the back of her vanity table, where Corinne had hidden a packet of letters.

Garland had surely never seen the letters, or he would have burned them, as Malcolm himself did, after reading them, at the impressionable age of fourteen. He wondered why Corinne had not destroyed the letters, or taken them away with her, but her carelessness about them confirmed his opinion that she was indifferent to the feelings of others, self-centered, deliberately cruel.

From that day, Malcolm worried that deviant, inverted natures such as hers might be inheritable traits. Had she meant for Malcolm, or for Garland to find the letters? They contained a disgraceful secret which Malcolm never confided to anyone. His mother had not left with another man; she had done something far more scandalous and injurious to Garland's pride. The treacherous Corinne had run off with one named Isabel Bertram, a woman she had, for years, passed off as her personal maid and seamstress. (On the day of their flight, Corinne took nothing away with her-almost nothing. But she, unbeknownst even to herself, carried a child, a daughter who should inherit the name of Foxworth, but never would.)

"Shall I bring your chair?"

His granddaughter broke into his thoughts when they reached the hospital.

"No, I'll walk." said Malcolm, and then, when the elevator opened onto the second floor corridor of the hospital, he frowned, muttering to himself. "What is SHE doing here?"

An elderly woman approached, obviously recognizing him. They were the same height, nearly, and they greeted each other without smiling.

"My granddaughter Molly is a nurse, and she told me Olivia is here. I wish you'd phoned me, Malcolm." said the woman, a hint of reproach in her voice. She spoke in the slow, lazily drawling way common to lifelong residents of the Shenandoah valley.

"Olivia hasn't asked to see anyone. You might have done better to wait until she's home." said Malcolm. The woman was unperturbed.

Olivia Ann gave Malcolm an inquiring look.

"This is Millicent Hanscomb." Malcolm began, leaning heavily on his cane. "This is my granddaughter. Olivia."

"I'm glad to finally meet you. She told me about you." said Millicent, with an ingratiating smile. "I've known Olivia, oh, for years and years, since the boys were just little ones."

"It was good of you to come." said Olivia Ann. "How is she today?"

"It's hard to say." replied Millicent. "She doesn't respond to anything. Malcolm, what do the doctors say? I didn't get much from the nurses, and they won't let me see her, since I'm not family."

"I should have a word with the doctor." said Malcolm, looking about, helplessly.

"I'll speak to the doctor," decided Olivia Ann. "You go on and see her now."

"I can't." he said, and to her dismay, he began to cry, silently. Millicent led him discreetly away. She clasped his hands, speaking to him quietly, as he collected himself.

Olivia Ann left them. When she returned some ten minutes later, Millicent was alone.

"He'll be all right, won't he?" she asked. Seeing Malcolm undone had brought home the severity of the situation.

Millicent offered no empty reassurances.

"Listen, if you would, gather some clothes-some of her winter things, and bring them." suggested Millicent. "These hospitals tend to be cold."

Millicent glanced down the hallway.

"It's good that they have you." she said. "You'll call if there's any change?"

"I will." agreed Olivia Ann. There was something about this woman that she disliked-her instant familiarity, or perhaps it was only that she sensed Malcolm's dislike of Millicent.

"Thank you. I can't stay. My daughter is waiting downstairs." said Millicent, edging toward the elevator.

Olivia Ann went in search of her grandfather.

"Are you ready to go, Malcolm?"

"I'll stay a while longer-see if she..." his words trailed off.

"Millicent suggested I bring Gram some things from the house."

"You'll do this tonight. I should have thought-"

"I need to call home and speak to Samuel and Loretta, but yes, I can do that tonight. You look very tired, Malcolm. You should let me take you home."

"I'll stay a while longer." he repeated.

"Gram will be all right. She may improve in time." Olivia Ann offered, not sure if she even believed the optimism she hoped Malcolm would accept.

"All of you are wrong. Olivia won't get better." he stated, with an unsettling finality.

"How can you know that?"

"I'm being realistic." said Malcolm.

For a fleeting moment, she wished she had never met and grown so attached to them. It would only mean another loss, eventually. But she chastised herself for such a thought. They were her family, and although she had met them only after she was grown, in some ways, she felt a stronger connection to them these days than with her flighty and demented sister.

Her grandparents were steady, dependable, and she had learned much from them, both about herself, and about coping with the stretch of life that lay ahead. Though not openly affectionate, they seemed to be the most married of all the married people she knew, but perhaps that was the way of things after fifty-five years. What would the passing of fifty years make of her own marriage to Samuel? It mattered very little anymore whether he was the right one; he was the only one.


	21. Perfect Revenge

PERFECT REVENGE

"In your struggle against sin, you have not yet resisted to the point of shedding your own blood" - Hebrews 12:4

"Thou wilt die soon and thou are not yet simple nor free from perturbations, nor without suspicion of being hurt by external things, nor kindly disposed towards all; nor dost thou yet place wisdom only in acting justly." - Marcus Aurelius

After Olivia's stroke, Malcolm's own health took a turn for the worse. He was admitted to the hospital in April, and there he languished for months. Malcolm's death seemed imminent, until early December, when he was released to return home once again.

Months before, Bartholomew Winslow had come to Virginia to oversee Foxworth Hall, and when Corinne Winslow made plans to be home for Christmas that year,  
John Amos surfaced again. But Bartholomew Winslow, preoccupied with other pursuits, chanced not to be in the vicinity of the mansion on the afternoon when Malcolm arrived. It was an unfortunate turn of events that only Corinne and her butler were at home. It was unfortunate for Malcolm, but it was a victory for John Amos Jackson.

"This man," said John. "This is the man claiming to be Malcolm Foxworth."

Two men-doctors, from the look of them-stepped into the room, all business as they strode over to Malcolm. They advanced, restraining him as if he were some dangerous criminal, rather than a fragile old man. Bewilderment quickly turned to cold fear as their mission became clear.

"What-" Malcolm began, but it was as if he had no voice. No one cared to listen. He looked from one face to another, but found no hope of disentangling himself from this web of misunderstanding. But there was no misunderstanding. He knew that as his eyes finally met those of the woman who had once been his daughter. Corinne looked away, blankly.

"My father is dead," she said. "I have no father."

"Corinne!"

"I've never seen this man before. I don't know who he is." said Corinne.

They began to lead Malcolm toward the door. Frantically, he stared around the room, but there was no help to be found. His eyes fell on John Amos, standing,  
stooped by the fireplace, a poorly concealed glint of triumph in his dark eyes.

"I'll kill you the next time I have the chance," Malcolm spat. "I hoped I'd killed you before."

It was the wrong thing to have said, Malcolm knew almost as soon as the words left him. John was wise enough to say nothing in response. The threat was absurd; this whole scene was absurd, but it didn't seem to matter. These doctors must have been bribed, Malcolm concluded.

Olivia sat in her wheelchair by the fireplace. Her eyes tracked the doctors' progress, horror readily apparent in her face. She was trying to speak, but could not. No one listened. No one tried to understand the garbled speech, and her increasing panic was contagious.

Making an effort to appear calm, Malcolm touched her cold hand.

"It's all right," he said quietly, though he didn't believe it. It wasn't all right, and he had no choice but to be led away from her, and from his house.

"Take him away," John was saying. "This is causing Mrs. Foxworth and Mrs. Winslow great distress."

"Of course, sir."

"No, Mother, you're confused. Mal is dead." said Corinne. She was intentionally misunderstanding Olivia. It was the last thing Malcolm heard, as they forced him to leave the library.

This morning, Malcolm read that Corinne had been committed to a mental institution. It had long been his opinion that such things were nothing more than an indulgence-all that probing into a person's mind, as if it did any good! As far as he was concerned, it only stirred up trouble. Psychiatry was a farce-a money-making racket targeted at susceptible people who hadn't the good sense to see what a hoax it was.

The fools running this institution in which he was a prisoner, were laughable in their attempts to force him to talk, and in their attempts to "cure" him of his delusions of being Malcolm Foxworth. He could combat his frustration at not being believed by toying with them.

It was only a matter of time until he came up with a plan to extricate himself from this madness. But what good would freedom do him, now? He would not involve Olivia Ann in this insanity. He would not call his granddaughter to identify him. He would call Catherine Marquet.

"Time for your medicine and your breakfast, sir." said the nurse.

Malcolm came slowly awake and out of the dream-a nightmare, really-knowing what he had to do. He was sure now.

When the idea first came to him, he had thought it too far-fetched to succeed. But he was driven to seek revenge, and there was no reason to delay. His identity was not in question. There were no bars across the windows; this was an ordinary hospital, not the lunatic asylum of the dream. But it may as well be one, he thought.

There had to be an end to nightmares and torturous thoughts. Waking or sleeping, it was all the same. He need not worry about hell; there could be no greater hell than the state in which he now lived. The bottles of medicine began to look more inviting, and not just for the temporary respite they could give. He was an old man whose value to those around him had decreased every day, until today there was none left. But he would not die by his own hand, although he favored the orderliness of taking charge, rather than leaving it to chance, which had a cruel, whimsical nature.

"You have an egregious sense of entitlement. You can't command nature, Malcolm." Olivia had said once, long ago. She repeated it other times, as if it was a basic fact he had never learned.

"Sometimes you can, and today I will." he said to the memory.

A plan began taking shape, one which must be carried out quickly. In the detached, calculating part of his mind, he'd known what he must do from the moment he saw Catherine Marquet's name in the front page story about the fire. She had been there; she had provoked Corinne into setting that deadly blaze!

Malcolm's need for revenge consumed his thoughts. He told himself he had no choice in what he was about to do. Even if his health should improve, he had no home to go to. He placed the entirety of the blame squarely on Corinne, and her daughter, Catherine. In his mind, there was no difference between the two.

Corinne's intent was to ruin him, just as it had been when she'd married Christopher. This latest scandal she and her daughter caused had destroyed him. Now, the Foxworth legacy would be this scandal, and it overshadowed all of his accomplishments. In a single night, they ruined all that he had ever cared for, and all he had worked to achieve, throughout the vital years of his life.

Malcolm mourned, looking out the window as the sun went down on a day Olivia, sleeping, had not known. "It's over," he thought to himself, and there was no one to agree with him, but he knew. There was no life left for him.

Resolutely, he closed his mind against the temptation to envision the horror and helplessness of Olivia's last minutes; it would plunge him into a miasma of unbearable emotions. All he could feel was anger. It was an emotion he was well acquainted with; all other feelings transmuted into anger. All his life it had been so. He had expected this latest tragedy to leave him numb, to vanquish his ire-that might have been a relief-but it had not.

Of John Amos's impostor's plan, Malcolm had never spoken to his granddaughter, to Corinne or to Olivia, for who in his right mind would believe that Joel, thirty-plus years gone, would suddenly return? Joel would never have knowingly caused his parents to suffer by letting them believe he was dead-not even his father, despite their strained relationship. So firmly did Malcolm believe this, that he didn't spare it a second thought. There were greater threats.

Throughout the last twelve years, Malcolm, in his way, had attempted to shield Olivia from the threat of Corinne's spiteful daughter, only to fail, to be defeated by the devious schemes of John, Corinne and Catherine, but by God, he wasn't going to grant to them the last word! He strove to remain clear-headed. To suffer another, final heart attack at this stage was unacceptable. It was essential to remain strong long enough to follow through with his last plan.

The Daily Progress was the first newspaper to carry the story of the tragedy of the Christmas party at Foxworth Hall. Journalists loved the story of the fire. Sensationalism was always a big seller, and although survivors hadn't yet begun to tell their stories, there was plenty of gossip and speculation to supply writers with ammunition for Foxworth destruction, for weeks to come.

The public couldn't get enough of the scandal, and journalists plumbed memories of aging employees and acquaintances of the Foxworths, and the archives of the local newspapers, for anything they could turn up on the family.

One of the more speculative articles called into question one of Malcolm's more controversial business decisions from the 1930's. The accompanying sepia-tone picture, from the summer of 1931, showed the Foxworths in the prime of life, Malcolm forty, his children at fourteen, twelve and seven years of age. It was not quite the best family portrait, but charming, in its way. Malcolm, posed behind the three children, wore an austere, proprietorial expression. Next to him stood Olivia, a haughty tilt to her head; the children looked bored, distracted and amused. The picture had a dated look, and provided a glimpse into the life of this family most had not known as a unified group, for all of the other photographs printed were of Corinne Foxworth Winslow. Even the life of the blameless Bartholomew Winslow came under public scrutiny.

Disconsolately, Malcolm stared at photographs of the wreckage, which accompanied the first of these articles. The two glorious staircases, curving up and up toward the memory of grandeur, emphasized the devastation of the rest of the mansion, and tempted plunderers. If one fell from those stairs now, one would fall straight down into the wine cellar, and to certain death.

Some of the charred contents of the rooms remained in tact, and already, looting had begun; souvenir seekers would have every last object which could be reached and removed. A great quantity of glass and unidentifiable debris littered the ground. Most of the upper level had been consumed by the fire, but the foundation of the house and the shell of the downstairs rooms remained, waiting for the ravages of time and the elements to wear them away.

Eventually, Olivia Ann would see these scurrilous articles, and she would want answers and explanations that Malcolm was too exhausted to supply. If she phoned the hospital, he would refuse to accept calls. He was grateful that her family would not be publicly embarrassed. Only Samuel Logan knew that Olivia Ann was a Foxworth, and of that connection, she must surely, by now, be deeply ashamed. He was convinced she felt nothing but hatred and disgust for him and for Olivia.

Olivia Logan had visited Virginia twice since the spring and the onset of her grandmother's decline. She had phoned Foxworth Hall the afternoon of Christmas Eve, and had spoken to Bart, who assured her that all was well. She had spoken to Malcolm in the hospital, and he seemed to be well enough, if not strong.  
Attempting to call Foxworth Hall over the next few days, she heard only the siren sound that signaled a telephone line out of order. This was not an uncommon occurrence in winter months, and so she did not worry.

Malcolm took up a pen and wrote a few glib sentences to accompany the parcel containing Olivia's manuscript, which he sent to Olivia Ann. It was the last time writing would be an outlet for what troubled him, but the lines that brought life from the blank paper were not necessary, he realized. Nothing he wrote would be likely to answer her questions, and so no final words from Malcolm ever reached his granddaughter.

Malcolm had never expected to meet Catherine. He tried to recall any propitious piece of information Olivia may have told him about the girl. Exchanges between them on the subject of Corinne's children had been few. He recalled the first one. It remained in his memory like wisps of smoke, almost as if it hadn't happened.

One morning-a Thursday when servants and his nurse were dismissed for their customary day off-Olivia had entered his room as usual. The hour was very early;  
the other occupants of the house still enjoying their repose. After a time, quite unplanned, he'd simply asked:

"Tell me, how are your charges today?"

She had not reacted at all; she expressed no surprise that he had known. She never asked how he found out about the children, nor did an explanation of her own motivations follow. She felt justified and sure of her choice, Malcolm concluded. That was when he fully grasped the extent of the influence John Amos had gained over her. Perhaps that was the day Malcolm's dislike of the man turned into hatred.

Olivia's gaze hadn't shifted away as he met her eyes on that long ago Thursday morning. Her serene expression never altered. He thought she hadn't heard his question, so he repeated it, but he might as well have asked how years of keeping secrets had affected her.

"The same." was all she said.

The curt response showed her level of detachment, Malcolm thought. The same. The same as the day before, the week or year before, the changes were slow,  
imperceptible, but profound. This thought was disquieting, but he let it go. Soon, it would not matter. Soon, he would finish forever with regret and doubt.  
He would leave that legacy to someone else.

Now he wished he had pressed Olivia for more details about Catherine. The information released for fans and the public about a ballerina did not give adequate insight into the person she was. His goal for the past twelve years had been to avert trouble from anyone who might stumble upon a link between a ballerina and the Foxworth family. He'd kept a keen eye on the occasional articles he'd managed to find in magazines, but they couldn't tell him what lay in Catherine's mind, and what plans for revenge she might have. His interest, in fact, only extended to keeping his life free of complication and harassment from prying reporters and troublemakers. Olivia had kept herself preoccupied with gardening, light housework, and tending to him, as a means of avoiding the issue of Corinne's children, and Malcolm had been equally determined to keep their names out of conversation.

Still, now and then, they had wordlessly examined reviews of Catherine Dahl's performances. Malcolm had been mildly curious about his famous niece, his interest piqued after seeing an article about her husband Julian Marquet's suicide.

"He looks as obnoxious as some of those pansy, artsy types Joel called friends." pronounced Malcolm, with no small measure of scorn for any man who would choose such a profession.

"I highly doubt one has to do with the other." Olivia had said. "I'm sure it's coincidental."

"What would YOU know about it?"

They had not been able to resist following the occasional tidbits of Catherine's career in the newspaper. Characteristically, they did not talk about it.  
They read the reviews with a mixture of disapproval and fascination, and an undeniable apprehension.

"If there is to be trouble, it will be from that girl." was Olivia's usual comment. "Put that away so I don't have to think about it."

Malcolm hadn't known precisely what prompted the distress in her voice, though surely, it was not fear! He would have been disappointed had she given into fear, so he chose not to acknowledge it.

It hadn't been an easy time when she came home to New London after the children's escape. Olivia refused to answer the door or telephone. When he questioned her, she always had a ready excuse; she claimed to be too busy... she hadn't heard the ringing phone. Eventually, she had wanted the instrument disconnected altogether, but this wasn't practical.

Malcolm made it his business, furtively, to keep track of the children as a precaution. (Olivia had not known; it had not been wise or necessary to tell her.) No one would get the best of him, least of all the children of Christopher Dollanganger!-(such a ludicrous name.) Malcolm refused to think of him as a Foxworth; Christopher did not deserve the name, and Malcolm had never truly acknowledged him as a brother.

Yet, Malcolm's grudge wasn't so much against Christopher's children, unless they gave him cause, but now, this girl, Catherine had given him cause to despise her. Olivia had been correct: Catherine was trouble. It was time he dealt with her.

Three days after that fateful Christmas of 1972, knowing time must not be squandered, Malcolm made the call. Catherine's voice on the crackling line was guarded.

"When did you know my father? How well did you know him?" There was a pause. "I'm sorry, I'm just finding this very difficult to take in."

"We met at Harvard," Malcolm improvised. Catherine's curiosity was piqued, he was sure of it. Fortunately, she was so surprised to be receiving this unexpected local phone call, that she did not think to question him further. A meeting time was agreed upon, and Malcolm disconnected, triumphant.

The light, quick footsteps of a woman approached. Malcolm struggled to pull himself up in the bed. He was unafraid and prepared when the door opened. He had the advantage, but strangely, she recognized him at once, and absorbed the shock well.

"I could not give you my name," said Malcolm. "You would not have believed me."

He was looking at her sedulously, a rapt expression in his iridescent, old eyes. Looking for something of himself in her, she guessed, or looking for something of Corinne.

All of them looked so much like him-his sons, his brother's children, (his grandchildren as well as being his nieces and nephew!) yet he felt no connection.  
These were Olivia's grandchildren, though there was no biological link. She was the one who had history with them, which Malcolm didn't share.

"There are some things I'd like to get straight, some questions I want to ask you." the girl began.

Malcolm ceased to look directly at her. He didn't want to see the family likeness. She was Garland's granddaughter, not his.

"How did you find out that we existed? Who told you about us?"

Olivia hadn't volunteered many details about the attic fiasco. Back then, Malcolm had waited, wondering how long she would keep her secret. The fact that she kept it secret from him was more disturbing than the specifics of what was going on.

Malcolm, too, had been detached. In those days his attention was necessarily focused on his immediate surroundings. Each day was a struggle, in and out of hospitals, waiting to die. He had survived, and he was glad of it-glad that he had a chance to take his revenge. He said what he hoped would affect Catherine most.

"Olivia herself told me."

The girl was shocked, that much was evident.

"The grandmother?" Catherine looked skeptical. Malcolm nodded. "But... why did you let it go on? And weren't you at all curious? Didn't you want to see us?"

"I didn't want to know anything." he said, enjoying her look of confusion.

"So you really did know we were there. Momma was telling the truth." Her confusion began to give way to more virulent emotions. "Everyone knew we were there,  
and yet all of you let Cory die."

"Olivia told me that Corinne was reluctant to take the boy to a hospital." said Malcolm.

"Do you take everything she told you as absolute truth?"

"I believed her about that. Yes."

There was a silence.

"If Olivia had intended the child to die-"

"Cory!" Cathy snapped. "He had a name. His name was Cory. He played the guitar; he loved music, just like your son, Joel."

Catherine began to pull photographs from her pocket, but Malcolm did not look at them. He did not want to see Joel. Somehow, he hadn't expected Catherine to know anything about his life. He hadn't counted on her being a formidable presence; she was, surprisingly, more than just her mother's daughter. If he'd had the time and luxury of allowing himself such feelings, he might have admired that about her.

Satisfied with Malcolm's stunned reaction, Cathy put the twins' pictures away. By her comparison, she had made the twins real, she had made them live in his mind, if only momentarily.

"If Olivia had intended him to die," said Malcolm, "she wouldn't have pressured Corinne to take him to a hospital."

"Why would you believe that woman? She'd say anything to lighten her own burden of guilt-if she had any."

"It is your mother who has a fondness for dishonesty. Perhaps you embellish your version of events as well."

"What your wife did to us needs no embellishment to make it horrific! She beat my brother and I with a switch and a hairbrush. She starved us all; she poisoned us, and-"

"You ought to get your story straight, young lady." he sneered. "Which is it? Were you starved, or poisoned? Were you locked in the coal cellar, or fed stale food for a week?"

"I suspected it, but I didn't want to believe that you could be so callous. I can see you won't acknowledge any wrong-doing, but she DID starve and poison us."

"I doubt that." he countered, calmly.

"I haven't finished-"

"Yes, you have. It isn't necessary for you to catalog Olivia's mistakes. I know very well what she was and was not capable of doing."

"You know, but you don't care. You overlook it." she accused. Seeing the reality of his willful indifference was truly appalling!

"What do you expect me to say? What do you think I should have done? Turned her in?"

"Why not? You disowned your daughter for lesser sins!"

"Therefore, you believe I should have had my wife arrested?"

"You have no conscience whatsoever!"

But Catherine had a conscience; he'd counted on that. Malcolm glanced at the clock. He had to move this along. In half an hour a doctor would come in, making daily rounds. Catherine had to be gone by then.

"Do you expect me to defend her, or to apologize for her?"

"I don't believe you would do either. You are without conscience. You have no feelings, and neither did your wife. Well, that isn't true; she did hate.  
The only time I saw her show an emotion other than hate was when she spoke of you-when she told us about how our parents caused your heart disease."

Malcolm's stare remained inexpressive, and Cathy wished she could hurt him!

"She must have been the only person who ever gave a damn about you. How does it feel to know you have outlived her?"

There was no reaction. Malcolm Neal Foxworth was proving to be as cold as his trophy-room portrait indicated he would be.

"You are a murderess!" he suddenly lashed out, and startled, she took a step away from him, from the force with which he spoke. "Olivia did not kill anyone,  
but YOU have. And you will again."

In a chilling, disturbingly prophetic way, Malcolm's opprobrium continued. He sought the limits of Catherine's tolerance with words sharp enough to carve out truth of the past and present, and the outcome he wanted.

"She did help our mother kill Cory and Carrie!" Catherine interrupted.

"Purely incidental, but it was for the best."

"You're just like HER! You think we deserved to suffer-that we are an abomination in the sight of God."

"I don't believe in a God. Religion was my wife's coping mechanism, not mine."

Cathy couldn't speak. His last admission was such a shock that she couldn't take it in.

"What? You DON'T believe-"

"I objected to your mother's marriage for moral reasons, not religious ones. All of you are the product of incest."

"What does that matter now?" Her voice rose in agitation. "We are alive, and we're PEOPLE, not-"

"Not everything that walks in the guise of a man is human." rejoined Malcolm, and by the look of Catherine, he knew he had finally gone far enough in provoking her to achieve his aim.

"All of you are," he met her eyes then, once, and for the last time, "nothing but human weeds."

He taunted her, and she wanted to-had to-silence him! She had to silence the manipulative, evil voice that repeated the poison which had driven Carrie to take her own life. Carrie had died in this very hospital, believing herself unworthy of life and love. The grandmother had put those ideas into Carrie's head, and the grandfather-who had the temerity to speak of moral objections-had just said that he didn't believe any of it. That meant that Carrie-all of them-had been made to suffer needlessly.

Later, Catherine might confront and question what she believed about herself, but now she didn't think, she acted. Malcolm had done all the thinking and planning, and he knew he had succeeded, as he always succeeded.

Cathy did not process what she was doing as the pillow in her stronger hands stifled his breath, and began to smother the life from him.

"You will never forget," Malcolm promised. He was frail, but he made an effort to fight what was being done. She had made a grave mistake; it mustn't happen this way! Cathy's anger grew as she realized the trap she had narrowly avoided. She dropped the pillow, and, looking resolutely away from his eyes which were still open and bright with life, she reached instead for the nearest syringe, and every vial of liquid in sight. Chris would know what to do, but he would never abuse that knowledge. She was relying on the bits and pieces she'd picked up from Chris, from the long days he'd studied in the attic. The attic-that was why she was doing this. How would Chris feel, if he knew?-but she didn't have to ask herself the question. She knew. She was alone.

Malcolm Foxworth could excuse his wife's sins, but his grandson would not overlook a sin as great as this one-not even for the woman he loved. Knowing love has limitations and conditions is a painful realization. Cathy would face this later, when confiding in anyone was impossible. But she did not hesitate now. She filled the syringe.

Officially, Malcolm's death would be recorded as a suicide, but Catherine would know the truth. The secret of what she did this day would linger in her memory, and she would have to bear it alone. The memory's endless tricks and plaguing guilt was Malcolm's revenge.

Neither of them spoke again. He heard her leave the room just before his vision blurred, receded, and the room revolved around him. Sound, too, became muffled and diminished. He had long fought this inevitable moment, but he had no qualms as he fell into the dark, into the arms of the ones who had gone before,  
and into the realm that waited beyond his dying consciousness.

THE END


End file.
